Full Metal Anarchy
by RhiannonUK
Summary: Recovering from his close brush with death Logan heads for Annapolis. Trouble isn't far behind...
1. On The Road Again

**I own the X Men not. This is a tribute so sue me not.**

**The story continues directly after _A Force of Nature_ ends so you really need to read that first if you haven't already done so.**

**Many thanks to all who reviewed AFON and stayed with the story until the end. I hope _Full Metal Anarchy_ will prove to be as popular. :0)**

**FULL METAL ANARCHY**

**Chapter 1 – On The Road Again**

I ain't alone in the garage no more. The smell of light cologne and dry cleaning chemicals mixed with fine lubricating oil wafts through the cloying garage funk. Don't need to hear the faint whine of an electric motor nor the ragged whisper of rubber rolling over concrete to know Xavier's about to catch me stealing one of his Jeeps. The wheelchair rattles as it rolls over a piece of pock-marked floor and seconds later it, and its occupant, hove into view. Immaculately dressed – his grooming is bordering on mania, right? - he draws to a halt six feet away.

"A minute of your time if you please, Logan."

Time's a-wasting and I ain't in the mood to play his stupid mind games.

"Shouldn't ya be engaged in teaching silly string theory one oh one or whatever it is ya do at this time of day?"

The skin around Xavier's steely blue eyes crinkles as he smiles. The humour's genuine but the bastard's up to something. I can smell it.

"Silly string theory. Yes, very good. I see your recent ordeal has not adversely affected your sense of humour."

So how come I ain't fucking laughing? Leaning nonchalantly against the Jeep I intend to boost, ignoring the uncomfortable bulge of the duffel bag slung over my shoulder, I give the interfering old buzzard a critical glower. Rumour has it Silly String possess useful military applications. Wonder if it can be adapted to bungee Charlie to his desk? Too late to experiment now. Cocking a shrewd eye at the wheelchair bound telepath, past experience insists he's here to do a number on me; give me an unassailable reason why I should stay. Why else would he quit his physics class half way through and head for the garage? Machiavelli woulda sucked dick to have a fraction of the manipulative talents Xavier possesses.

"If ya here to talk me outta leaving you're wasting yer time." Only way anyone's gonna stop me heading out after Jessie is a bullet in the brain. Won't work for long o 'course but if ya wanna piss me off that's the way to go.

"Dissuading you from leaving is not my intention, Logan. I am here to give you this."

Probing the right pocket of his expensively cut charcoal grey suit, Xavier produces a medium sized manila envelope. An amorphous lump spoils the envelope's flatness and a faint metallic smell, coupled with its vague shape, tells me it's probably a key. My curiosity is immediately piqued. I can smell plastic too and printer ink. Opening the envelope I tip the key into the palm my hand; a car key. It's joined by a platinum Amex card with my name on it. Logan Wolff? Whose stupid idea was that? Never mind, I think I can guess. I toss Charlie a quizzical look before reaching into the envelope to retrieve a folded piece of paper.

"What's all this about," I ask suspiciously.

Again the smile. How can an expression so benign get my ass hairs twitching so vigorously?

"Emergency measures notwithstanding, I have reached the conclusion that you are less likely to appropriate personal or school property…"

"Hey, if this is about One-eye's Mazda getting torched that wasn't my fault, okay?" 'Sides, incinerating that Back Street Boys CD was doing Summers a big favour. Might've even hitched his crapped out cred up a notch or two. But probably not. "And I was gonna bring the Jeep back." Just don't ask me when.

"… if you were provided with a vehicle of your own If you would be so kind as to follow me please."

Xavier backs away and performs a perfect three point turn before wheeling off along a row of vehicles. He's heading towards the courtyard where the vehicles are washed. Intrigued, I follow him, wondering if he's persuaded One-eye to part with that amazing bike of his. Nah, that's too much to hope for. He's probably given me one of the school runabouts. A Jeep if I'm lucky. Pearlescent light floods into the bay as Charlie opens the door. For a moment he's silhouetted against the daylight before powering through the door. I'm unprepared for the surprise waiting for me.

"Holy shit!" I exclaim, a wide grin plastering my face.

"I believe your preferences tend more towards durability than style. I consulted Rogue regarding choice of colour." Xavier draws to a halt besides the brand new Jeep Commander. My gaze glides over it's sleek, black exterior, taking in the chunky tyres and the way the pale, overcast sky and encroaching buildings are mirrored by the pristine paint job. That's one hell of a deep shine! It's a million miles way from the ratty camper van I'd been driving around Canada for years.

Hey, what am I thinking? Ya don't get something for nothing. Not in this fucking world.

"What's the catch?" Far from sounding grateful I'm aware that this thing, if it could talk, would be screaming BRIBE!

Ignoring my question, Xavier begins to extol the main features of the Jeep.

"There's a four point seven litre V8 engine under the hood. The transmission is manual and you can engage the four wheel drive whenever necessary. Satellite navigation has been fitted as standard. There are one or two special features and adaptations you might find useful should you find yourself in a tight corner. A state of the art communications device for instance and an emergency beacon that can be located anywhere in the continental USA, Canada and Alaska. The fuel consumption is rather excessive I'm afraid but that is to be expected. For other specifications I refer you to the manufacturer's manual."

Trailing my fingers along the hood like the paint job is a lover's skin I halt at the driver's door. "No expense spared, huh?" I say turning to face my benefactor.

I open up the driver's door and breath in the newness. Black leather upholstery, grey and cream trim. Wouldn't hurt to try it out so I climb in. Taking the wheel in my hands I run my fingers over the leather grip. Looks good. Smells good. Feels good. But then Xavier knew it would. And there lies the fucking problem. How far does he think my gratitude will extend? I say end of the drive. Lay short odds on Cue-ball wanting it to stretch a lot further than that.

Let's take stock.

Item one: The Jeep didn't appear overnight even if it was bought off the peg, which ain't Charlie's style. Rogue chose the colour so some planning went into it.

Item two: Amex cards don't materialise at an hour's notice. They hafta be applied for and this takes time even if you're a rich bastard like Xavier.

Item three: What the hell is item three? I unfold the piece of paper in my hand. It's a photocopy of some sort of memo dated nineteenth of May, 1984. Names have been coded out but the message is intact. Shame it ain't written in any fucking language I understand. So why does reading it make my skin crawl?

**_"All current neuro-isolation techniques contraindicative; consecutive failures to eliminate major factors retarding or eradicating post series functional capabilities. Neuro-elimination strategy will be implemented with prosthetic neo-engram overlay introduced post gamma phase zero four. Imperative aptitude profiles are preserved. Primary trials to continue under aegis of Iso-research 8 co-ordinator. Subject will be available for procedure 22nd May at 0800 zulu." _**

I'm fluent in kick-ass but I musta been out of town the day they covered geek-speak. I read it again carefully and reckon I've caught the jist. "Lotta fifty dollar words here Charlie. Does this say what I think it's saying? It's about my amnesia?"

"I fear so, Logan." The smile has disappeared to be replaced by a pokerfaced expression. Grimness emanates from him, spiced with a vague anger that hardens those steel-blue eyes. "This memo refers to a series of failed brainwashing techniques that were abandoned in favour of permanently eradicating part of the subject's memory and imprinting false memories in its place. Although I cannot be one hundred percent certain you were the unfortunate recipient of this barbaric procedure, there is little doubt in my mind that you are the subject mentioned in the memo."

That don't add up. The recollection of my escape is fragmentary at best but prior to this, there's nothing. "Then why don't I remember anything from before I escaped? Where are these false memories?"

Xavier wheels himself closer and has to crook his neck to look me in the face. "I can only postulate. The damage this process has inflicted on your psyche is extensive and I am at a loss to definitively explain how you are able to function on any level. Yet here you are. This suggests a psychological resilience on a par with your physical ability to regenerate flesh and bone. Telepathic evidence indicates that over time your mind began to expunge or override the false memories, necessitating a renewal procedure. These corrupted engrams would have been purged by your captors in preparation for an upgrade. The psychic scars you bear are consistent with the application of a series of overlays, at least eight and quite possibly more. With every new application the procedure became more aggressive, more damaging. The most recent scarring implies a purge but no new overlay. During the last process something went wrong, perhaps due to lax safeguards or inadequate monitoring. Subsequently, you escaped."

"And how the hell did I do that? I couldn'ta been more than a shambling drool machine."

"I believe the feral half of your psyche, still intact despite the mental devastation, occupied the void left by the purge. Fortunately, over a period of time, your humanity returned and resumed control. The rest of the story I believe you know."

"Why didn't ya tell me this before?"

"Because until I discovered the original memo, its reverse side used as scrap notepaper and clipped to the back of an unrelated report, I did not understand the full implications of the mental scarring. Unfortunately, this does not bode well for the success of any therapy designed to regress your amnesia."

"You saying that anything I might remember is false? It's a lie?"

"Not at all. The memo mentions the preservation of your aptitude profiles – the skills that made you so valuable to them. Isolating key abilities and memories is not a precise technique. They may well have deleted a large part of your past but they could not have eradicated all of it. A few remaining prior memories is a small price to pay for leaving your skills intact. Bearing this in mind I owe you an apology, Logan. I set you on what I believed to be a path of personal discovery. An impossible journey, it transpires. How can you hope to find within you what no longer exists?"

I'm trying to take the information on board when a new realisation rears up and sucker punches me. "The memo is dated nineteen eighty-four." Adrenalin fuelled rage turns my heart into a trip-hammer and I try not to choke on my next few words. "My memories go back only as far as the winter of eighty-nine. Those bastards fucked me over for at least five years before I slashed my way outta there, probably longer."

What sort of atrocities did I commit for those evil, bottom-feeding shitsuckers while under their control? They didn't give me an adamantium bonded chassis and claws for my health, that's for fucking sure. Fighting off an almost irresistible urge to spring my claws and maul something or someone, I close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing, calm things down so I can think straight.

"I can help you Logan."

Opening my eyes I glare at Xavier. "Ya think?" I don't bother hiding my scorn. I ain't in the market for his brand of trust in the law bullshit "You gonna hold the motherfuckers down while I slowly slice an' dice 'em into shark bait?"

"The Weapon X programme turned you into a living weapon, Logan. I can think of no other connotation for melding adamantium to your skeletal structure and furnishing you with six lethal claws. Their nefarious experiments and barbaric surgical and psychic practices tore apart your mind, your body and your life and believe me, I sympathise with your need for justice. However, justice should not be found on the ends of your claws. Engaging in a murderous crusade and hunting these people down in the name of retribution will only validate their original intention. To forge you into a brutal killer."

Ain't that exactly what I am? "Why should I give a fuck? You think I'm gonna smile and turn the other cheek? Ain't gonna happen. I find 'em, I'll kill 'em." They're gonna die real hard now I have a clearer understanding of how thoroughly they fucked me over.

"Violence is not the answer. Killing criminals rather than bringing them to justice is never a good idea."

"Looks fucking good from where I'm standing."

Xavier scrubs his face with his hand. I think he's regretting sharing the latest information with me. "Logan, killing the ones who implemented the directives of the project may give you a short lived sense of satisfaction but it will be a Pyrrhic victory. What about those who are ultimately responsible? What about the empowered individuals who commissioned this atrocity and probably others of a similar nature? Violently eradicating the project's personnel will drive their paymasters deeper into the shadows. Such evil thrives on secrecy. Exposing it to the light of truth is the most effective weapon we have."

"Bullshit! You wanna curry sympathy from Joe Public? The same fucking upright citizens who are demonstrating in their hundreds of thousands in favour of the Mutant Registration Act? People lobby against animal vivisection, Charlie. They don't give a fuck about muties coz, thanks to your pal Erik, we're up there with Hitler, Stalin and Pol Pot!"

"And that is all we will ever be if we take the law into our own hands. We can police our own, protect the public against the excesses of misguided individuals like Magneto. The X Men are uniquely equipped to deal with threats of this nature. But meting out instant justice is not our purview. Mutants are not above the law, Logan, nor should they be outside it. Criminals must be dealt with by due process of the law. It is the only way."

"So the fuckers can escape and attempt global genocide? Quit using yer head as a butt plug, man. People look at a mutant and they see Magneto, they see terror and death. They don't see heroes or saviours of the world. They don't care about how law abiding the rest of us are. All that concerns their bigoted little minds is the threat they think we symbolise."

"Then we must remove the perceived threat."

"And then what? Teach the faithful how to nail custard to the ceiling? Why d'ya do this, Charlie? Ya think this constant drip, drip of sanctimonious crap is eventually gonna wear me down? It won't. Ya tend to see things in a different light when ya get a hundred pounds of molten adamantium shoved up yer ass. Ya meet lethal force _with_ lethal force. Turning the other cheek with bastards like Magneto and Stryker gets you dead, Charlie. F, U, C, K, E, D, dead!"

"I understand how you feel about your mistreatment. I hope to convince you that violence is not the only answer. In the interim I ask that you try to curb your excesses."

Xavier's calm, unruffled exterior is pissing me off. No one can be that much of a pacifist can they? It defies reason for chrissake. While I respect the man for his belief in a peaceful solution it don't make his doctrine the only one or even the right one. How many times do we hafta have this argument and how many times has it gotta end in stalemate before he'll quit trying to convince me? I've had enough. Fuck him.

"I hear ya, bub. Now is there anything else ya wanna share with me before I haul ass outta here?"

"Actually, yes there is."

I had to ask. Rolling my eyes I demand, "What?" He gonna fucking eulogise on why I should return to this dump?

Xavier leans forward in his chair, his expression earnest. "When you sealed the spillway doors at the Alkali Lake complex, how did you know which power conduit to disable?"

Charlie's non sequitur takes me by surprise. "'Scuse me?"

"There were power conduits throughout the base with at least half a dozen of them terminating in a panel on the wall of the complex's main entrance. How did you know which one was wired into the servo mechanism?"

I shrug. "Must've been labelled."

Xavier smiles and says softly, "No Logan, it wasn't."

_What will you do, scratch it with your claws?_ Magneto's sneering words are engraved on the inside of my skull. He used them to dismiss my ad hoc plan to enter the base and open the spillway doors. Ironic really. With lake water roaring along the spillway with the force of a dozen freight trains I just sank my claws into the servo's mechanism, severing the power conduit and sealing the doors. Some fucking scratch you bucket headed asshole.

"Lucky guess?" 'Cept that it wasn't. I instinctively knew which terminal to go for. Didn't even think about it.

"You are doing yourself an injustice."

"Okay. So tell me, Sherlock. How the fuck did I do it?"

"Repressed memory coupled with phenomenal powers of observation linked to your enhanced senses." Xavier says that with a face straighter than an Arizona highway.

I laugh; a humourless, hollow sound. "That's a crock! Where was this phenomenal mojo when I managed not to notice vehicle tracks and the stink of troops and aviation fuel on my first trip to Alkali Lake?"

"I can only speculate. Your skills are obviously latent but appear to be involuntarily accessible in times of extreme need."

"I've had my back to the wall more times'n I can count. Where the fuck were those damn skills then?"

"You may not have been aware your resourcefulness came into play. Again, I can only speculate. Your first escape from Alkali Lake was nothing short of miraculous. You were deeply traumatised, feral, certainly not rational, yet you possessed sufficient resources to evade capture and exit the base. How was this possible?"

Good question. However… "That doesn't explain the spillway doors. I was running into danger, not away from it."

Xavier's smile widens. "Yes you were, but this time you feared for the lives of the children, for the lives of your friends. Flooding of the base being imminent you correctly assumed the spillway to be the most probable escape route we'd take. You averted certain disaster by closing the doors. Extreme need."

The implications sink in and raise a myriad questions. First among 'em is, "These skills, if they exist, why can't I consciously access them?"

"Assuming you effected your escape after a brainwipe but before a new overlay, it is not inconceivable your preserved memories and skills would have been isolated or deactivated for the duration of the process. You left before they could be restored. The knowledge is there, inside your head, waiting to be unlocked."

"Then what are you waitin' for? Read my mind. Let's find out what I'm really capable of."

The smile vanishes. "Logan, I have told you before, A mind, _your_ mind, is not a neatly compartmentalised entity with clearly defined labels. Peeling back the layers of your mind risks collateral damage, probably for both of us. There exists a serious risk my intervention will do more harm than good. This is not an option. The recovery of your skills is a process only you can undertake. I will assist you as ably as I can. I cannot promise more than this."

"But I'm not a telepath, I don't know where to start…"

Smiling like a rat in a granary, Charlie makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the surrounding buildings. "Where better than Xavier's school for the gifted?"

"What? You fucking crazy? I ain't going back to fucking school!" No way is Captain Anal gonna dish out homework. Not if he values his life.

"I am not suggesting you should. Having given the matter some deliberation I believe you should explore the tactical applications of your weaponisation. Immerse yourself in the various techniques of unarmed combat, stealth and information retrieval. All of these skills would be of great advantage in the field. But remember that many new techniques and technologies have been invented and perfected in the intervening years. Some of your skills may be obsolete but they can be used as a platform to acquire new skills. All of the resources available to the X Men will be made available to you. And I am sure Ms Commeau will be delighted to offer you personal instruction in unarmed combat techniques."

Immerse myself. Will familiarity trigger my latent skills? Sure it will. I got a whole memory cascade when I found the adamantium lab. Possibilities open new doors inside my head.

"I think ya might have sommat there, Charlie. Thanks." Getting personal with Jessie is an obvious perk. Shrugging the duffel off my shoulder, I sling it onto the back seat.

"One final question before you depart, Logan."

"Yeah?"

"When you return will you continue with Rahne's instruction?"

_When_, not _if_ I return? Arrogant bastard's so sure he's got me. Ah, hell, who'm I kidding. Sure he's got me. This is the real reason he came to the fucking garage. Who else would offer me unlimited resources to help restore an integral part of me?

"I didn't make any promises." Still ain't convinced I'm the kid's only hope.

"You are evading the question, Logan."

What's the fucking use. My conscience won't let me abandon her. "The kid's good people. My kinda people. I won't let her down. That answer yer damn question?"

"Admirably."

-o0o-

Baltimore traffic's a real bitch. The approach to the Baltimore Harbour Tunnel toll booth ain't a road, it's a clogged-up artery. And the smell! Even with the air conditioning switched to recycle the stink of metal, hot engine oil and exhaust fumes is choking me and I ain't even in the damn tunnel yet. Ain't a claustrophobe but I'm sorely tempted fill out an application form and join the club if I don't get out of this fucking traffic jam soon. Right now all I wanna do is execute a one-eighty and head north where ya can breath air instead of pollution. Only thoughts of reaching Jessie keep me pointing south.

Muffled strains of Steppenwolf's _Born to be Wild_ fill the cab; a thin, tinny squawk as annoying as a mosquito whine. Ain't got the radio on coz I hate vacuous, too fond of their own voices to play music DJs so where the fuck's it coming from? My hearing zeros in on the glove box so I lean over and open it giving rise to an increase in both noise and annoyance. Lying on top of a bunch of CD cases is my cell phone. I wonder what fucking joker programmed the ring-tone into it? There's an envelope stuck to the back of it which I rip free and toss on the passenger seat. My irritation evaporates when I see the name of the caller – Jessie.

Pressing the answer button I say, "Hey, baby, whatcha doing? Your Dad okay?"

"Hey back, Wild Man. Dad came out of surgery half an hour ago. His surgeon says the operation went well and that Dad should be okay. I want to be with him when he wakes up. I stepped outside to call you at the school because you were dead to the world last night and missed my last call but Ororo told me you'd left and were heading my way." She pauses, "Logan, is this wise? I mean, you were in a coma less than twenty four hours ago. You almost died for God's sake."

Was that a catch in her voice? "I'm fine," I reassure her. Her honeyed voice in my ear, even stretched thin by the carrier wave, is like a soothing elixir. "Healing factor kicked in once Moira and Reyes wised up and quit trying to cure me. I'm good as new." Almost.

"But you were so desperately ill, Logan. I know you have a healing factor and all but I also know it was thoroughly compromised. Are you sure you're up to this?"

"Hey, if my being there's gonna cause a problem…"

"You can belay that crap right now, mister. You just get your incredibly sexy butt down here right now, ya hear me?"

"How can I say no to that, sweet thing?" I'm grinning like a lunatic which seems to worry the old lady in the car stuck almost level with mine. Giving her a theatrical wink gets me pursed lips and a fuck off and die scowl. Probably just made her day.

"Where are you?"

"Bogged down in Baltimore traffic." Fucking hours away from ya darlin'. "Traffic ain't even crawling along. I could probably fly to London and back in the time it would take me to get outta this snarl up."

"Have you organised somewhere to stay?"

"Not yet. Gonna see what's what when I land."

"We have a spare room. You're welcome to use it."

"I don't think that's a good idea, sweetheart. Things must be tense with ya Dad being ill and everything. Ya don't need a stranger adding to the mix."

"You're probably right. Mom's real worried and Phil's on edge." Who the fuck is Phil? Gotta be her brother. "There's a really good bed and breakfast a couple of blocks away. Chesapeake House will have rooms available this time of year. The beds are large and comfortable, what's more the food is damn good. The owner's a friend of Mom's. I'll see to it you have a room, okay?"

"Big beds, huh?" Her laughter fills my ear and set my pulse racing.

"You're a bad boy, Logan."

"I wanna be, sweetheart. But in your own time, okay?" I'm sensitive to the notion she has her mind on other things right now. She wants me to be her rock I can do that too.

"I have to go, love. Mom's signalling me to come in which means Dad must be waking up. Make your way to Chesapeake House on Maritime Lane in Eastport. It's well known so you should be able to find it if you ask directions. I'll see you later."

"Maybe we can go somewhere to eat?"

"That sounds nice. I'd like that. You like seafood?"

"Yeah."

"Then I know just the place. Bye, Logan."

"Later, Jessie."

She's gone. And I'm still stuck in traffic. Funny how it don't feel quite so oppressive any more. I give the old lady another wink just for the hell of it and pass the time daydreaming about how frantic, satisfying and mutually inspiring mine and Jessie's reunion will be.

-o0o-

Forty miles the other side of Baltimore I pull over at a gas station after a fruitless search for a diner. Don't people eat around here? I'm in dire need to fill one tank and drain another. Hunger pangs are becoming hard to ignore, I'm still healing after all so I prepare to make do with whatever over-sweet snack is available at the counter, cursing myself out for not raiding the larder before I left Westchester. As I unfasten the seat belt a flash of white catches my peripheral vision; it's the envelope I chucked on the passenger seat when Jessie called. Tearing it open I find two separate pieces of paper. I can detect the vestiges of both Moira's and Maggie's scents. I open one of the notes; Moira's.

_Logan, I know I am probably not your most favourite person at the moment but there are some things you need to know. Unfortunately you were so angry yesterday I never had a chance to say what needed to be said. _

_I apologise for not listening to you. I forgot that being a doctor does not mean I have all the answers Cecilia and I truly believed we were administering the correct course of treatment. Both of us know better now. Cecilia was so upset by what happened she left as soon as she was sure you were recovering. I know she intended to open a clinic specialising in mutant medicine, heaven knows there's a desperate need of such a facility, but her first real experience of treating a mutant has made her shy of her original intention. I hope she reconsiders. Meanwhile she has returned to ordinary medical practice. She hopes that, in time, you will forgive her for her mistake. As I hope you will forgive me._

_Although I'm sure this will not be an issue you need to understand that your blood must never, under any circumstances, be used to transfuse another person. It would kill them as surely as injecting them with cyanide. Henry believes he now understands how your healing factor works. Your body manufactures copious amounts of cells similar to stem cells but immeasurably more powerful. These super stem cells can instantaneously begin to repair or replace organs or any other tissue when damage occurs. It also explains why you survived the adamantium process when the bonding effectively prevented your bone marrow replacing blood cells. Unfortunately, it renders you extremely vulnerable if, for any reason, your healing factor fails. _

_Your behaviour yesterday raised doubts about your suitability as a mentor for Rahne. However, having seen how gentle you were with the wee bairn, even under the duress of a fever and your feral rage, I do not believe you could ever harm her. Rahne herself has expressed a wish that she wants to learn from you. I am not entirely certain what brought about this change of heart but whatever it was, I want you to know that you have my full support should you wish to continue Rahne's training. It is my dearest wish that you return to help my daughter. However, I will not hold it against you if you chose otherwise. _

_Moira._

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, sweetheart. That's where your tender mercies sent me. Rahne's another matter entirely though. If I can help her I will. But you, lady, can stew in yer own juice 'til I return. Then ya can buy me a beer or six and we'll talk about it. I take out my lighter, open the driver's window and set fire to the letter before wafting it outside. No need to tell the world how I can be taken down. I watch the breeze carry away the ash making damn certain nothing is left.

The second note is short and sweet.

_You will find what you need in the cargo space. Have a safe journey, pet. Give my regards to Jessica._

_Maggie._

I can take an educated guess at what particular need Maggie has provided for and sure enough, when I climb outta the cab and open the tailgate there's a big cool-box. Lifting the lid gets my nose twitching; roast chicken, various kinds of sandwiches, boiled eggs, bottled water and precious treasure – three AOTs. Yer a real lady Maggie. But see here, this is another example of forward planning by a third party. Am I so fucking predictable? Guess I'm looking at the answer. The cool-box ain't the only item stowed in cargo. Prising the lid off a large, flat cardboard box enhances the aroma of new leather. Tugging back several layers of tissue paper reveals a black biker jacket with yet another note.

"Hey, buddy! You gonna fill up or what? Some of us poor schmucks gotta work for a living ya know." The speaker, who's head is thrust out of the open driver's window of his beaten up blue van, is a podgy middle-ager with bulldog jowls and a shock of straw coloured hair.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be done real quick," I snap back as I slam the tailgate shut. The guy glowers and mouths _asshole_ at me as he pulls his head inside the cab but I laugh. He ain't looking for trouble and neither am I.

After I fill up I drive away from the pump giving the gas station attendant cause to panic judging by the expression on his face. False alarm, bub. I'm just giving space to the hardworking schmuck. Ya should be thanking me for my generosity. After paying for the gas and using the john, I take the Jeep onto a piece of scrubland next to the station and break out the food. Belly full and a coupla beers inside me, I take a closer look at the contents of the cardboard box. The note turns out to be from Rahne.

_Dear Mr. Logan,_

_Because I ripped your jacket I decided to buy you a new one. Mummy subbed my pocket money for at least a zillion years and Storm took me shopping in town. I wanted to chose a nice shiny new one but Storm said you would like a retro scruffy one better. I picked this one because of the buckles and the way it fastens and because it looks really cool._

_Piotr told me that all cool biker jackets need artwork on the back and he should know because he's seen lots of movies. I told him what you might like and he did some sketches. I chose the one I liked the best. I hope you like it too._

_Rahne._

_PS I like Jessica a lot so please tell her I said hi and hope her dad gets better soon._

The jacket is of classic style with a Harley Davidson label. It looks well worn, like it's been kicked from one end of Canada to the other, but it's obviously brand new. Musta cost the kid a packet. Feel kinda guilty coz I won the old one in a poker game years ago and it'd seen better days even then. Turning the jacket I look into the airbrushed face of a snarling wolf that has been rendered so subtly onto the leather it's like it's been there forever. That takes talent. If Metal Boy ever decides to quit ricocheting live rounds and throwing bad guys through walls he'll make a comfortable living as an artist.

"Thanks kid," I murmur as I don the jacket. It fits like it belongs there. I'm not normally keen on jacket artwork but Rahne chose the wolf design for its special significance. It's an acknowledgement, a description and a warning all rolled into one. I kinda like it.

Switching on the radio leaves me cursing and then I remember the CDs in the glove box. There's half a dozen of them, some bands I recognise some I don't. There's a post-it note stuck to one of the cases.

_Logan. If you're reading this it means you snuck off without telling me, dammit! Hope you like the CDs. Love Rogue XXX_

Yeah, sorry about that, kid. I'll make it up to ya.

This is a day full of surprises. All these gifts, all this good will. Anyone'd think all my birthdays'd come at once. Course it would help if I knew when my birthday was. I scan the CDs. Rogue's choices, while not exactly eclectic, are pleasing; either rock or heavy metal. I choose the Rammstein CD because it has the most interesting cover and slam the disc into the player. Ain't a band I'm familiar with but I'm game for anything. As the first track starts playing and the guttural voice of the lead singer blares out I realise he's singing in German and I understand some of the words. While on the road I let the CD play through twice more and discover I can understand more of the lyrics. Enough for a rough translation anyhow.

Fuck me, I can Sprechen Sie Deutsche; sorta. Well waddaya know? Looks like both Charlie and Maggie were right on the button after all. I do got hidden skills. Only one way to know for sure. Just as soon as I return to Westchester I'll let Elf buy me a beer.

**If you enjoyed this chapter please review. You know you want too. :0)**

Logan has hidden talents. The problem is he can't remember where he left them. Xavier has an idea where to find them and offers to help. Rahne, no longer afraid of Logan, is keen for him to help her control her mutation. Still recovering from his brush with death, Logan heads for Annapolis and Jessica. He saves a life and becomes embroiled in a conspiracy that threatens the very foundations of civilisation.


	2. Oh, Brother!

**Chapter 2 – Oh, Brother!**

Ya know, that night in the diner I coulda swore Jessie told me her family lived in Keswick so what the hell am I doing in Annapolis? Not that it ain't a pleasant burgh. The town of Eastport has open spaces, a spectacular Chesapeake Bay coastline and a prevailing onshore breeze that blows away the stink of civilisation. I can see the appeal. A small pocket of civilisation where a man can breath; be at ease with himself; face nature in the raw simply by putting out to sea. It's not for me though. Too many faces for my liking. Too many noses attached to 'em. I don't do neighbourhood.

The Commeau residence on Blue Cove Lane is an immaculate period house situated on a rise overlooking a harbour full of yachts and motor launches. Extensive, neatly kept lawns fall away from the house, a verdant skirt whose edges are embroidered with colourful spring plants. It's picture book perfect and precisely the sort of place I'd normally shy away from. People who live in houses like this see people like me hanging around and call the cops to report a prowler.

To the rear of the house, towering over it all, is an impressive Gingko tree whose branches throw a protective umbrella across a wide area. The house and tree look contemporary with each other, each developing in its own characteristic way. Where the grounds meet the shoreline there's a dock providing mooring for a modest sized white yacht with bright blue fenders. It bucks gently as it rides the waves. The wind plucks at the jib lines causing them to jangle against the mast whilst cross the harbour lots of other jibs lines clink in chorus. Gulls wheel overhead, crying to each other while a solitary duck bobs on the surface of the water, paddling about aimlessly.

It's quiet, it's picturesque and the whole damn place reeks of money. No wonder Summers did a volte-face over Jessie. Shallow bastard.

Ain't no car in the drive and the only noise coming from the house is the ringing of the 'phone. I'm responsible for that but no one's home to pick up. Jessie's cell is switched off so I guess she and her folks are still at the hospital. Nothing for it but to go check in at the place she told me about. Turning the Jeep around I head back the way I came.

Chesapeake House turns out to be an old farm house with all the charm of its eighteenth century antecedents. Its rust coloured shingles, tall gables, pale grey clapperboard, deep blue louvers and poppy red door are so apple pie I can practically smell the pastry. Bet the damn place doesn't have a bar.

Parking the Jeep on the paved drive I grab the duffel and stroll towards the door wondering whether to knock or just walk right on in. The decision is taken from me when the door swings open to reveal a woman with striking blue-green eyes and a long sleeved, sea green dress that falls to just below her knees. As she emerges into the sunshine I can see she ain't no spring chicken but not exactly old either. Mid forties I reckon and trim. Good pins on her too. Not beautiful, at least not in the conventional sense, but not plain either. Her heart-shaped face is framed by short, curly hair that is naturally blond. She smells of Chanel, water colour paint and flour.

"You must be Logan. My name's Tilda Matthews. Welcome to Chesapeake House." Friendly manner and a warm smile means this lady knows how to make her guests feel at ease. My intrinsic paranoia makes me the exception.

"Thanks," I respond. Tilda holds out her hand and I shake it briefly, before letting go.

"Jess rang about half an hour ago. She asked me to inform you she'll be coming straight over here after leaving the hospital."

Trying to place Tilda's accent. Mid Atlantic for sure but nothing like Maggie's. Not too familiar with English accents but I hazard a guess that Tilda originally hails from somewhere south of Maggie's native Yorkshire.

"Thanks," I repeat and wait expectantly. I feel exposed standing out here swapping small talk. "Nice place," I mutter, using the opportunity to scan the area and test for suspicious scents and sounds. Probably a pointless exercise but ya just never know do ya. Two smells I pick up are definitely welcome. Fresh coffee and newly baked bread. The real deal, not that chemical shit people spray around to make their homes feel welcoming.

"Thank you," she gushes. "I fell in love with it the day Alex carried me over the threshold. Been here ever since."

Her smile widens revealing dimples. Jessie has dimples. Three sets of 'em. One set in particular I intend to reacquaint myself with at the earliest opportunity. But that ain't gonna happen while I'm standing outside soaking up rays and Tilda's personal history.

"The drive down here was sheer murder. I'd like to freshen up if that's possible," I prompt.

"Of course." Raising her hand to a mouth in a cute, girlish fashion she continues, "Silly me! What sort of hostess keeps her guests waiting in the yard? Come on in." The hem of her dress flares out as she executes a graceful spin and walks back to the house. Yeah, very nice pins.

Inside, the hallway is wide, brightly lit and tastefully decorated. The walls are adorned with framed water colours; originals. Some are landscapes, some are maritime scenes, some are still life and some are portraits. All are apparently by the same hand. All are, in my unqualified estimation, very good. Reckon I'm looking at the way Tilda uses her spare time. The place smells of age, textiles, polished wood and fresh flowers. A bowl of red tulips, blooms drooping decadently, decorates a small table. Overlying everything are the joint aromas of coffee and bread I detected outside. I sniff appreciatively. There's still food in the cool box but it's been a while since I've eaten. Not since the gas station in fact.

"Let's get you registered and then I'll show you to your room. Would you prefer an en suite shower or bath?"

I got a choice so I guess there ain't too many guests staying at the moment. Ain't gonna lose sleep over that. "Shower's fine."

"I hope you haven't got anything against stunning views," Tilda says as she heads down the hall.

While following her retreating figure, though it's not as stunning as Jessie's, I have to admit, "No. No problem with that at all."

The lounge is a crazy mixture of opulent, cosy and antique. Lots of chintz, fresh flowers and watercolours. Guess the lady is very prolific where her hobby is concerned. A grandfather clock, its case age darkened cherrywood, marks time noisily. Chairs of various styles litter the room in a haphazard fashion. In the corner is a TV, sullen, silent and looking out of place. Who the hell would want to watch it when there's a spectacular view of beautiful gardens and the bay beyond the window? Depends on which hockey teams are playing, I suppose.

Registration is informal; a book to record the names of visitors and their addresses. There's a line for comments too. I glance at them, all appreciative. This outbreak of congeniality feels uncomfortable, almost suffocating. I don't belong here. But for Jessie I would walk out right now and find something more appropriate; more anonymous. Taking the biro Tilda offers I scribble in my newly assigned name and a fictitious address and hand the book back.

"It's a long drive from Westchester, you must be thirsty and a little peckish. I can rustle you up some cold cuts if you like."

Sounds good to me. "Uh, yeah, sure."

"As for beverages, I have tea, a fresh pot of coffee or, if you prefer it, there's the house speciality. Jess mentioned you would appreciate sampling that."

House speciality? Something alcoholic maybe? "Sounds good."

"Come on through to the kitchen. Guests aren't usually invited into the private part of the house but Jess is practically family so I guess you are too."

Whoa! This friendliness is really setting my nerves on edge. Though equipped to deal with the fear and loathing of strangers, I'm still way out of my league with civilised and harmless. "I don't wanna impose…"

"Nonsense. You're hardly the sort of chap who appreciates chintz and Maryland kitsch. You'll feel more at home in the kitchen, I guarantee it."

No shit. Wonder what gave me away? The wild hair or the snarling wolf jacket? Can't smell any deception or ulterior motive. She's just being what she is – a sincerely warm-hearted person. Allowing Tilda a genuine smile I accept her invitation. "You've convinced me."

The kitchen is substantial. Two large casement windows let in light and cast soft shadows. The exposed beams on the ceiling are original features. So are the stone flags on the floor if the wear patterns are anything to go by. Taking up the centre of the room is a huge table that can easily seat twenty people with elbow room to spare. It's surface is pitted with use and age, each scar dark against the lighter wood. Love knocks, every one adding its own piece of history and tenderly polished with beeswax. Oak cupboards, some fitted, others freestanding, line most of the walls. Works surfaces are an off-white marble with rust coloured veins. The large range cooker is old but well used and the only pieces of real modernity I can see are the large double refrigerator and the microwave oven. The austerity is softened by splashes of colour: pictures, decorative plates and shelves of fancy jugs and teapots adorn parts of the walls not occupied by cupboards. Dried flowers hang from beams. Next to the back door is a coat rack bearing waterproofs, some old, some brightly coloured including child sized ones. Beneath that is a rack of gumboots and shoes of various sizes and colours.

As I explore my surroundings a weird, indefinable sensation sends shockwaves down my spine before lodging in my chest and constricting my lungs. It elicits a gasp which I stifle. The jolt dumps adrenaline into my system, sending my heart into a frenzy and making the veins in my temples pulse to its frantic rhythm. Somewhere, some_when_, I've known another place like this. Closing my eyes to filter out distraction I attempt to chase down the vague almost memory. But it's too illusive; less a memory and more a distorted echo. Scratch that; it's a ghost of an echo. The harder I try to grasp it, the easier it slips away like the wind through my fingers. Frustrated, I shake my head but that ain't gonna help any.

"Logan, are you all right? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Not seen. Evoked. "You're right," I affirm, mouth dry.

"About what?" Tilda replies.

"I like this room. Reminds me of another place."

Relieved, Tilda re-engages chit-chat mode. "Oh, everyone does. The old place is so full of character it's hard not to like it. Other than a few mod cons such as plumbing and lighting, the kitchen hasn't changed much I don't think. Take a seat at the table and I'll fix you something to eat."

Dragging a spindle-backed chair away from the table I lower my bulk into it and watch as Tilda rustles up a meal of cold cuts and cheese from the fridge and thick slices of buttered, still warm crusty bread.

Placing the plate before me she says, "I'm just nipping into the cool room. Won't be a sec."

Don't need any encouragement to tuck in. "'Kay," I manage around a mouthful of cheese. A man can get used to food like this. Beats trapping and skinning my own or eating tasteless fast food in nameless greasy spoons any day. Damn. Thoughts like that are too fucking dangerous to let lose.

Tilda returns with a number of brown bottles clutched to her. I stare. It can't be…beer?

As she lines them up on the table before me she rhymes off names. "Waggle Dance, flavoured with honey from local bees and very smooth as it slides down the tubes. Hog's Nose, a full bodied, very strong beer which Jess believes you might favour. Autumn Mist, a speciality fruit beer which is an acquired taste but well worth the experimentation. Yule Be Back is a one-off winter brew. This one has been delicately spiced. Fisherman's Finger is a traditional English bitter and seems to be a favourite with the locals. This one is Eastport Pale, rich, golden and my favourite."

"The house speciality is beer?" Have I died and gone to heaven? Or am I dreaming?

"Why not? The peak season fishing crowd and holiday makers put the bread on the table but we also need off season trade to survive. So we run real ale inspired short breaks for beer connoisseurs. There's also a local Beer festival in October. My brother, Tom Bradshaw, owns one of the local micro-breweries. Brewing is something of a cottage industry around here. Commercial beers simply cannot compete with real ale."

Funny, I didn't smell hops brewing as I drove into Eastport. Wind must've been blowing in the wrong direction. I pick up the Hog's Nose and look at the label. Thirteen percent alcohol by volume. Sounds fucking good to me. "Blue Boar Ales?"

"The family company. The Bradshaws have been brewing beer since the year dot. Blue Boar Ales are still brewed back home in Oxfordshire by my older brother, Kevin and his family. Tom decided to branch out here after I married Alex." She fishes a bottle opener out of her pocket and hands it to me. "Would you like a glass?"

"Nah," I drawl as I pop off the lid and take in the heady smell of brewed hops. Smells even better than the label reads. Tastes like a little bit of brewed heaven. "You gotta shop? I reckon I'm gonna take some of this stuff back to Westchester with me." Charlie's gonna throw a fit when he gets the bill but what the heck. I've shed blood for his cause, too damn much of it, so he fucking owes me.

Her smile widens. "Of course. We do mail order too."

Perfect! Gotta tell Sal about this. If the rest is as good as the Hog's Nose the beer'll vanish off the shelves quicker than mist in the sun. Or I could be a selfish bastard and keep this little secret to myself. No wonder Jessie has a taste for good beer.

I wash down the rest of the food with the spiced winter beer. First mouthful tastes real fucking weird but it settles on my palate very quickly and the rest goes down like nectar.

Tilda is watching attentively as I glug down the beer. "How do you find it?"

Giving her a thumbs up sign I reply, "Never tasted anything quite like it. This is a one-off ya say?"

Nodding she replies, "Tom makes a new one every year. It's a Bradshaw tradition."

"That's a real shame." I'll get a few packs while it's still available.

The two beers have given me a bit of a buzz. I'm tempted to go for a third but I don't wanna be in a state when Jessie shows. The drive down here has exhausted me and there's no way I should be feeling the effects of two beers no matter how strong they are. Screwing with my healing factor has really fucked me up. And people want me to feel sorry for Reyes? Stuff that.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"I'm fine thanks. There's a lotta dusty miles I wanna sluice off before Jessie arrives."

"Sure. I'll show you to your room."

-o0o-

A light tap on the door intrudes into the dark, amorphous scenes playing out in my mind. Instantly awake, I spring upright, adrenalin whipping my reflexes to battle readiness. Disoriented by the dream it takes me a second to get my bearings in the unfamiliar surroundings. Where the fuck am I? Eastport. Yeah.

Another knock, heavier, more insistent. "Logan? It' me, Jessica."

Jessie. Scent percolating through the gap beneath the door confirms it. Emitting an audible sigh as bunched muscles relax, I slide off the bed and unlock the door. Before I realise it she's in my arms, tears spilling from her eyes. Burying her face in my bare shoulder her body begins to heave with deep, reaching sobs. After closing and locking the door I hold her close as she releases all her pent up feelings. No point talking until she's worked through this so I just stand there, rubbing her back and nuzzling her hair with my face. Finally the sobbing subsides.

Chucking her under her chin I gently tilt back her head so I can look into her eyes. The glycerine shine of her tears makes her eyes look larger, her vulnerability plain to see. Ain't good at comforting people but I'll give it a try.

"Hey, baby, what gives? Is it your father?"

Shaking her head she replies, "Dad came through the surgery like a real trooper. His doctor has given a very optimistic prognosis. Problem is the cause of his heart attack isn't clear. Even my brother is at a loss to explain it and that's the weird thing. Phil can diagnose diseases and organ dysfunctions at a touch. He and Dad went sailing just hours before the heart attack and he swears Dad was in good health, no sign of any coronary disease. Phil suspects some form of fast hitting virus but we'll know more in a few days time when the lab results come back." Her eyes search my face while my own gaze becomes lost in the fathomless depths of blue. "I'm sorry for being a cry-baby."

"After what you've been through you earned the right, sweetheart." Pulling her close once more I fold my arms tightly around her as she struggles to offload the burden of anxiety. Hospital stink taints her clothes but having her in my arms, feeling her warmth against my bare chest, compensates for that. Intense, vibrant and just a little damp from tears, she clings to me as she rides out her complex emotions. I can smell her anguish, her relief, her receding fear.

"I thought I'd lost you," she snuffles into my shoulder. "And then Dad…it was just too much, Logan. Too much."

Alarm bells ring in my head. I can't shake the idea that the strong attraction between the two of us is wrong somehow, yet at the same time it feels so fucking right. We've been on two dates, if ya can call 'em that, and one of those involved a knife fight. Sure there's an obvious sexual chemistry but that don't explain why either of us has fallen so hard. Is this a reaction to Jeanie's death? Is Jessie on the rebound from the chickenshit who dumped her for his career? Are we simply holding on to each other from a sense of desperation?

Shut up asshole! Ya think too much.

"'S okay, darlin'. I'm here now."

Lifting her head up she demands, "Kiss me."

Don't need to be asked twice. My lips meet hers and I kiss her passionately, and with an honesty that surprises me. Everything I have, everything I am, goes into that most intimate of human expressions and she reciprocates, her tongue hungrily seeking out my own. As the kiss deepens and passion rises, I detect a change in her body chemistry as her endocrine system pumps out supercharged pheromones like there's no tomorrow. My entire body is under chemical assault as I breath in her need, soak it up like a sponge. It's exhilarating; a fevered invasion I willingly accept.

God I've missed this. I've missed her.

She's a drug. A delicious addiction. Her essence bleeds into me, through me; hammered deeper with each beat of my heart. It's in my core; coalescing into a tension that threatens to explode. The familiar fire in my belly flares to life; vital; almost painful. Yet something is wrong. Something's just a little bit…off. Breaking away from her lips I nuzzle her face, drinking in her scent. Searching.

Yes. There it is. Mixed with her desire is a trace of guilt. A small nagging doubt almost lost beneath her arousal. I ain't about to help her do something she may regret, or even resent. I ain't gonna take advantage of her no matter how bad I want her. Pulling away from her lithe and willing body is the hardest thing in the world. My senses, my entire being, are screaming, pleading, begging for the release she promises.

Puzzled by the sudden distance between us she worries her bottoms lip. "Logan, what's wrong?"

"Just a little tired is all."

"Bullshit! You want me, I can feel it. I can damn near taste it."

She reaches down and runs her fingers up my jeans zipper, exploring my arousal. Her touch, even through the thick material, is electrifying. Jeezus, please don't do that again, darlin'. I won't be responsible for what happens if ya do that again.

With my resolve rapidly disintegrating I manage to choke out, "Jessie, you've been through a lot with yer Dad and all. You're vulnerable and fragile. And there's a little voice deep inside you telling you this is wrong. I can smell it. No matter how much I need you I ain't gonna take advantage." I won't let my dick overrule my head no matter how turned on I am.

Her expression softens. "You're so sweet, you know that?"

"Ain't ever been accused of that before."

"What I need right now is you, you big lunk I want to feel you inside me. I want to feel alive. You gave me back my life, Logan. You gave me back my future. Make me feel alive."

Is this Jessie talking? Or her libido? If she's a victim to the same biochemical assault as I am, and the signals she's giving off suggest she is, she ain't in control. Christ, I'm barely in control. Her lips lock onto mine once more and I can taste her hunger, her raw need. Her body, warm, intoxicating, contours with mine and she rubs herself against me, her movements sinuous and…aaaaaah! Eager hands are unfastening my belt buckle, unfastening my jeans. At her first, unimpeded, boldly sensual touch my self restraint shatters and so does my resolve.

"I will," I growl as I sweep her off her feet. I'll make us both feel alive.

-o0o-

My final release is exquisite, almost unbearably intense, and I groan my passion like a man in torment. For that's what I am. Pleasure surges through my entire being and quickly dies away to a languorous ache as the fog of lust dissipates, finally sated. Reason sees its chance and seizes control, reasserting common sense and kicking my dopamine addled brain into something approaching normalcy.

Stupid fuck! I did it. I caved in to sensory and physical gratification even though I knew it was wrong. What the hell's the matter with me? As the spasms of ecstasy become a memory I look into her eyes and see…what? What do I see? Fear? Pain? Revulsion? Shame? Or my own guilt-ridden imagination reflected back at me? It's so fleeting I can't be sure.

I breath her in. No fear. Or pain. Or revulsion. Or shame. Just the redolence of sensual musk and the sweat of our wild exertion. She's oozing satiation; a chemical aftershock so pungent and unyielding I can almost carve my name in it.

Not wanting to crush her beneath my dead weight I begin to lever myself up so I can roll off her. Jessie ain't having any of it. Her legs entangle mine and her arms snake around my neck, pulling me in close. I'm acutely aware of our proximity, of our combined heat, of how our combined sweat welds our skin together, of how fast her heart is beating. Her tousled hair is spread across the pillow like a blaze of glory and her eyes draw me in, twin soul magnets.

I'm a bastard. I shouldn't have let this happen. I know better than this. Brushing a sweat dampened strand of hair from her face I search those blue depths for doubt, for anything I hope isn't there.

"You okay?"

"Uh huh," she croons, her voice dreamy, a smile stretching her reddened, slightly swollen lips. Pulling me down she kisses me but my guilt acquired immunity won't let me enjoy it.

"I love you. I love everything about you," she whispers in my ear, her voice husky with exertion.

The L word hits me like a hollow-tip round, blowing a hole right between my eyes and fragmenting my mind. Shit Jessie. Don't up the ante like this, sweetheart. I ain't ready to take this to the next level. Not sure I can. Not sure I can trust myself to. It's too soon. Ya can't love me. Ya barely know me. It's the moment talking. The chemicals. The after effect of a mind-blowing session in the sack. People say the stupidest things when still caught in the thrall of passion. That's gotta be it.

"You hardly know me," I chide as I twist a lock of her hair around my fingers.

"I know enough. Gramps taught me to judge a person by the calibre of their friends and you, lover, have some very high calibre friends."

"Who I hardly know." And truth be told, I'm not sure I want to.

Jessie studies my face, a kittenish smile twisting her lips. "Do you love me?"

"I…I don't know."

I'm being honest here. I don't know. This shit is moving too fast for me to take notes. It's too perfect. Too sudden. Paranoia won't let me accept this situation at face value. Nice things don't happen to me. Not usually. And when they do things go clusterfuck so fast it'd put the speed of light blush to shame. Jessie don't smell of lies or deception. But what she does smell of…damn; it's intoxicating! She has the capacity to send me into sensory overload when she's feeling hot, effectively short-circuiting my brain and sticking my dick in the driving seat. She's a distraction. An addiction. No question. I want her. I need her, dammit! But do I love her? Do I even know what that means?

I can't shake myself free of the sense of impending doom clouding what I want to feel for her. Everything I touch. _Everything!_ Becomes cursed. I can't do that to her. I can't.

Jessie shifts beneath me and this time she doesn't stop me rolling away. "Logan? Are you all right? You seem…distant."

"Um, just tired is all. Healing factor's still working it's mojo."

Alert now she sits up, dragging the sheet around her, hiding her beautiful breasts. Guilt streams off of her souring the air, her expression changes from dreamy contentment to stricken concern. "I knew it! I shouldn't have made you do this so soon. This is all my fault."

That's it? That's what her guilt was all about? "No, sweetheart. It isn't. I wanted this as much as you did. I'll be fine. Just need something to eat is all."

"What time is it?"

I check my watch. "Just after five-thirty."

"Time to hat up and book out. I've made a reservation at Appletons for seven and I need to swing by home to shower and change."

"We're going to a restaurant?"

"Sure. The food's the best in the district."

Damn! "Then I guess now ain't a good time to tell ya I sorta forgot to pack a suit and tie."

Smiling a cat's smile she purrs, "You mean the same suit I didn't find hanging in your closet back at the school? Don't worry about dress code, Wild Man. Appletons is informal. You'll fit right in."

Frowning I say, "You went through my closet?"

"I stayed over at the mansion for a few days. In your room. I needed somewhere to put the few things I'd packed for a short stay. I've heard of minimalism, Logan, but your wardrobe was frugal to the point of deprivation."

"I travel light," I growl.

"Very commendable. And unnecessary. I know Charles gave you a credit card. Maggie suggested I show you what it's for. Other than for beer, smokes and gas that is."

Don't like how this conversation is shaping up. "This is beginning to sound like some sort of fucking conspiracy," I grumble. What is it with broads wanting to organise a guy's rig-out? Is it genetic or conditioned from birth?

"What? You're afraid of going shopping?"

"Hell yeah! I've visited a mall. I know how dangerous women can be when they're in a buying frenzy. Forget it."

"Who said anything about a mall?"

I've seen how the womenfolk, including Rogue, back at Xavier's act whenever a shopping expedition is being planned and I want no part of it. Expecting her to bust my chops over this I'm taken by surprise. "No mall?"

"Nope." She shakes her head, a faint smirk teasing her lips. "A mall is no place to take a shopping ingénue like you."

Fuck that! Actually, no perhaps I shouldn't. Lost for a suitable retort I laugh. She's right. When it comes to viciously determined women hunting down a bargain I know I'm out of my league. Not gonna argue about this. I need replacement stuff. I know it and it seems Jessie knows it too. But I'm gonna need my wits about me; gonna hafta be firm about putting my foot down over any purchase I make. My dress down or die rep depends on it. No way am I gonna end up looking like a One-eye clone.

"It's too late to do anything about it now," I say trying to inject regret into my voice and failing completely.

"Of course it is. Which is why we'll go into town tomorrow morning. If that's okay with you."

We will? "Sure, darlin'. I'll pencil it in, right after crawling out of bed and before hunting down my first beer."

Without warning a pillow smacks into my face with considerable force. Much female giggling ensues and she switches the pillow's trajectory to swipe at me from the other side. I fend off the attack.

"What didja do that for?"

"You were going to pencil me in…when?"

Jessie strikes again. That girl sure slings a mean pillow. Raising my hands against the onslaught I managed to bark out, "I'm joking. It was a joke."

-o0o-

"Oh, hell. I forgot about Phil."

The Jeep's tyres crunch as I turn off Blue Cove Lane and into the Commeaus long drive. Pulling up alongside a smart blue BMW I can feel Jessie's discomfort and wonder what the big deal is.

"There gonna be a problem?"

"I asked him to call by the house to pick some things up and well, I got side-tracked didn't I," she said, her chagrin forming a lop-sided grin. "He can be a bit of a mother hen if he's kept waiting and wondering."

Mother hen is the tip of the control freak iceberg as far as I'm concerned. I mean, look at Summers. He's the whole fucking chicken farm. "Hey, blame me. It's one of the things guys are good for – excuses that is."

After practically leaping from the Jeep she sprints to the front door only to have it open before she hits the first step up to the porch. Two white and brown tornados launch themselves through the door, across the porch, down the steps and begin wriggling and barking at Jessie's feet. Climbing out of the cab I lean against the hood, arms crossed, watching Jessie deal with the vigorous reception party.

"Hello babies," she squeals in a high pitched voice as she hunkers down to their level. The wriggling becomes more frantic as each mutt, both Springer Spaniels, vies for her attention. The largest of them finally notices me and trots over to investigate, sniffing the air and wagging his tail.

"Hey, boy," I say in the quiet tone I reserve for critters. He's a real friendly fella so I give him a pat.

Standing in the doorway and watching Jessie is a guy who's unmistakably related to her. They share similar facial features, same shape eyes, nose, mouth and chin. He's taller than Jessie, almost my height but without my bulk. His trendily cut hair is more red than honey coloured and his eyes are a lighter blue than those of his sister. He's dressed smart casual in pale grey cords and a navy blue sweater. He reminds me of One-eye which is in keeping with the mother hen thing. Not a good sign. A frown wrinkles his brow and his disapproving lips and hand gestures reveal his state of agitation.

"Jay, where the hell have you been? When you weren't here I became worried. There was no note, you didn't call and your cell was switched off. Mom told me you left the hospital just after three. I thought something had happened to you."

"Phil, I'm sorry. I forgot…"

Where's your car? Did you break down? Why didn't you call me? I would have picked you up instead of some stranger…"

Noticing my presence he gives me a fast appraisal, looking me up and down before frowning even deeper and dismissing me. I interpret his short-lived curiosity as tacit proof he ain't impressed with what he sees. Wonder what's put the asshole's panties in a bunch?

"Who is this guy?"

"If you'll quit being a pain in the ass worry-wart for just one second, I'll tell you."

His expression mildly apologetic he murmurs, "Oh, sorry. I did it again didn't I?" On reaching his sister he gives her a brief peck on the cheek in greeting and then starts quickly as if he's been slapped in the face. "What the…?" He glares at me accusingly, anger turning his complexion flush red. Ain't got a clue what the fuck I've done, especially since I ain't said a word to the guy. Turning his attention to his sister he grates, "What the hell's going on, Jay?"

Now it's Jessie's turn to be angry, flicking me a stay-out-of-this glare she rounds on her brother. "Nothing that need concern you. This is Logan…"

"Logan?"

The shift in his thought pattern plays out on his face as he searches for a reference.

"_He's _Logan?"

What is it about me that shoves a cattle prod up people's asses? Don't know the guy yet he says my name like it's something he just scraped off his shoe. A One-eye carbon copy for certain.

"The guy you met in Westchester? The friend of that Summers guy who flew you down here?"

Whoa, what was that? Beam Boy did what? And who the fuck made him my friend?

"The guy who's supposed to be comatose from end phase disseminated intravascular coagulation?"

Coz of wind direction I can't smell the scepticism flaring off of Jessie's brother. Don't need to. The visual and audible signals he's giving off are more than sufficient. And what's this end phase crap? Do doctors really need so many fucking euphemisms for a terminal condition?

Jessie's genial expression congeals. Guess she's picked up on bro's tone too. Marching up the porch steps, she gets up close and personal before rasping out, "Hell no! This is a spare I picked up when I caught him stealing ladies lingerie in Wal-Mart."

Phil's eyes widen and his face blanches before turning a delicate shade of puce. He just looks at her, momentarily speechless. Kinda reminds me of a rabbit cornered by a fox. And what a fox!

Finding his voice he grates out, "There's no need for sarcasm, Jay. It doesn't become you." He leans closer to her, whispering in her ear. Don't seem to be aware I have a heightened sense of hearing. Ain't got no problem with eavesdropping so I listen in.

"You're glowing. You've just had sex with him. Have you forgotten Dad is critically ill in hospital? For heaven's sake, girl, have you taken leave of your senses? I mean, look at this guy, he looks like an extra from _Wolfen_."

I'll give him this, he don't beat about the bush. Wonder how he'd react if he knew how close to the truth his werewolf crack got him?

Jessie's mouth falls open and a hiss escapes her throat. The deep red flush colouring her complexion ain't embarrassment, it's fury. Gotta love it when she does ballistic and right now she's a honey-shaped powder keg primed to explode. Laughing quietly to myself I settle down to watch the fireworks. Jessie can handle herself and brother Phil ain't no twenty stone, knife-wielding outlaw. Poor sucker don't stand a chance. Aware of my amusement her brother sends a dark look in my direction before focusing his attention on his sister. The detonation, when Jessie delivers it, is understated but none the less paint blistering.

"What the hell has that got to do with anything?" Jessie retorts angrily, keeping the decibels at conversational level. "Does Dad being ill mean you've sworn off sex with Rona?"

"That's different. Rona's my wife," he splutters out, clearly squirming from her direct response.

Phil overstepped the bounds of propriety with his remark about Jessie's recent afternooner. If he'd said it to me he'd be measuring his length in the dirt. What brought it on? I'm presuming his touch is good for more than diagnosing medical conditions. Definitely a new twist on kiss and tell. Damn handy talent too.

Jessie's posture stiffens. The dipshit's really for it now.

"Bullshit! I'm sick of your chauvinistic histrionics You have no right judging me like this or to make disparaging remarks about Logan. You are my brother. You're not my bloody keeper. I don't grill you about your love life so bug the hell out of mine or I'll kick your ass clear into the next county."

Gut-shot, Phil seems to lean away from his sister's tirade, maybe half expecting her to make good on her threat. Obviously, these two are fighting on a familiar battlefield and Jessie's offensive is a practiced, well executed campaign of invective. Phil obviously ain't no quitter though. From the look of him he's taken the moral high ground and he's prepared to go the distance.

Damn. This could take some time.

"What happened to you, Jay? What happened to the feisty but sweet sister I used to know."

"Jay-Jay is long gone, Phil. People change. I changed. You have to accept that."

The two glare at each other, the atmosphere between them distinctly frosty. Phil is the one to break eye contact, bowing his head before looking away. Fuck me, maybe there is a god after all.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't intrude. It's just…well I can't just switch off wanting to look out for you, Jay."

"And I'm not asking you to quit caring. But there's a difference between brotherly concern and overbearing interference. You need to learn to distinguish between them."

With a slight nod he concedes the argument. "I guess I should leave now. Don't worry about picking Mom up from the hospital. I'll swing by and fetch her home when she's ready to leave. The dogs have been fed by the way."

Mollified, Jessie relaxes, her belligerence sloughing away as quickly as it arose. "Not so fast, bro'. I have a birthday gift for Rona, a doll for Lily and some things for the baby when he's born. I was passing this shop and they had the loveliest little…well you'll see for yourself." Turning her head Jessie beckons to me. "C'mon inside, both of you."

Bounding up the porch steps with feline grace Jessie disappears into the house, closely followed by the dogs. Heh, reckon I know who their pack leader is. Phil follows, moving slowly and I find myself catching up with him. Proximity brings me into his scent wake which reeks of hostility. He might be willing to give his sister leeway for her transgressions but I'm another matter entirely. I'm the guy fucking her and he hates me for it. Life's tough. He's gonna hafta get over it or learn to live with the disappointment. Fortunately, he ain't the one I gotta relate to so I couldn't give a rat's ass. I temper my stride to allow him entry to the house first coz there's no way I'm gonna turn my back on this dickhead. As I step inside I'm in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of Jessie's feet and ankles as she disappears from view at the top of a flight of stairs. I find myself in a hall decorated with bright rugs, colourful ornaments – obviously mementos, and a whole gallery of children's drawings and painting adorning the walls. Nothing like the austere grandeur the house's exterior offers to passers-by.

Phil is standing a little way down the hall, looking up the stairs and evidently listening to Jessie's receding footfalls. The hall falls into partial shadow as I close the front door, the pale golden sunlight filtering through the fanlight the only direct illumination. The sun's low angle transforms the leaded fanlight into an elongated spider's web of shadow and light that stretches half the length of the hall. Bisecting it is an equally elongated shadow cast by Phil's head and upper body. He turns and grey-black striations ripple diagonally across his features and chest. The contemptuous expression plastered across his mug tells me all bets are off. Matching his flat, unfriendly stare with one of my own, just so he knows he don't got the franchise on shit like that, I wait for him to make the first move. If there's gonna be trouble then, for once, it ain't gonna be me starting it. Ain't got the same compunction about finishing it though. I can do that in spades and with both hands tied behind my back.

"Why are you here?" Phil's tone is harsh, venomous and uncompromising. It matches the hard glint in his eyes.

This is polite Eastport small talk? Whatever happened to pleased to meet you? Or the customary meaningless discussion about the weather just to break the ice? Well if that's the way he wants to play it…

"Beats me. Philosophy was never my gig."

His eyes narrow to slits. "Don't get smart with me. What are your intentions towards my sister?"

Ain't got a problem with him looking out for Jessie. Got a huge fucking problem with his 'tude though. The knowledge she and I are swapping fluid is damn near eating him up inside. Too bad. Nevertheless, I try and reason with him in my own, inimical way. He started this so I don't hafta play nice.

"Bub, Jessie and I are both consenting adults. What we do ain't any of your business."

There it is. The bitter stink of a high end anger spike. But he's control freak enough to hold it together in the face of adversity. Both hands clench into fists though. Biggest mistake of his life if he puts 'em to use.

"I'm making it my business. My sister jumped into your bed with indecent haste which, to be frank, is completely out of character. I think you are taking advantage of the fact she's on the run from a disastrous relationship that left her career and her life in tatters. Rebounds only end in disaster and she doesn't need any more grief in her life."

"Well it's nice to know you're giving me the benefit of the doubt. I'd hate to think ya didn't like me." Sarcasm drips from my tongue. The effect it has on him washes over me as the cloying scent of righteous indignation infects the air.

Thin lipped, his features pinched, he unclenches a hand to stab an accusing finger in my direction. "Yesterday you were supposed to be comatose from severe haemorrhagic shock and multiple organ dysfunction yet here you are, hale and hearty. What did you do? Pretend you were at death's door to milk the sympathy vote? Do you know that since Jay returned to Annapolis to be with her father she's been tearing herself up over you? Someone she barely knows!"

Is this what the hostility is all about? He's mad Jessie's attention was divided? "I got better."

The snort of derision disturbs the airborne dust as it bursts from his mouth. "That's a bunch of crap. I know what DIC does to the human body and I'm telling you, it isn't something you can just get up and walk away from. Jay's eyes might be blinkered by infatuation but I'm a whole new ball game, mister."

Fucking doctors with their arrogant, sacrosanct opinions. How come ya never see statistics for the victims of trust-me-I'm-a-doctor syndrome?

"No fooling you is there?" I sneer.

Somewhere above, a door closes and I can hear Jessie's muffled footfalls as she makes her way to the staircase.

Dropping his voice to a harsh whisper, Phil warns, "You hurt her, you answer to me. Is that clear?"

"Ain't gonna hurt her." Though you'll never know it, bub, I was as surprised as you she picked a guy like me. Conversation over as far as I'm concerned, I turn away, anticipating Jessie's reappearance.

Phil steps towards me, his face falling into pale shadow as he moves beyond the fanlight's influence. "Jay has been through hell and back recently. I don't like you. I don't like the fact you and she are intimate while still practically strangers. However, for her sake, I'm willing to call a truce."

Truce my ass. This guy wants me gone in the hardest way. He's up to something but I can't parse what it is. Not even pretending to smile he thrusts his right hand sideways, a curt nod of his head indicating his desire to shake on it. I stare at his hand, biting back words I know ain't gonna be received well. I didn't come here to fight with Jessie's brother. And I didn't start this fight so don't see why I should shake his fucking hand. 'Sides, his touch does more than seal a deal, don't it?

"Stick yer damn truce." And yer kiss and tell.

Cue bizarre as the situation goes tits up wild style.

Phil's hand darts forward and clamps around my left hand. I tend to get pissy when people take liberties that ain't been granted and make to swing the bastard around and administer a painful reason why he ain't gonna repeat the mistake. Ain't nothing for me to snag though coz both he and his offending extremity are sailing backwards like some invisible hand has seized his collar and yanked him off his feet. Stunned, I watch as Phil, all deafening screams and flailing arms, performs a graceless ballistic arc several feet through the air.

"Noooooo!"

That ain't Phil, it's Jessie. As luck would have it she appears at the top of the stairs just in time to witness Phil's adventure in unassisted flight.

Phil hits the floor hard, landing heavily on his back. The impact jars the air from his lungs, which escapes explosively from beneath his bared teeth and effectively silences his hollering. The dogs go berserk, barking and bouncing around, licking his face, eager to get in on this new game.

"What the fuck…?" I begin as I hold up my hand and inspect it. Jessie's renewed cry of concern cuts me off.

"No! Jeezus, Logan, why did you hit my brother? Oh my God! Phil are you okay?"

Shaking my head in denial I qualify it with a puzzled, "Didn't lay a finger on him, sweetheart." Didn't get a fucking chance to.

Flashing me the mother-lode of black, accusing looks, Jessie races down the stairs, several fancy bags and packages clutched to her chest. Dropping her burden on a table she rushes to her brother's side and crouches down, hands checking for injury, particularly on his face. All I can do is stare as he lies there like a beached flounder, face maggot white, his body trembling with shock.

"Brett! Dolly! Down!" The dogs, tongues lolling and tails wagging, do as they're told, sitting on their haunches a little way off. "What the fuck happened? I leave you two alone for just a few minutes…" It takes a moment for me to register Jessie's question is aimed at me.

"Ain't got a clue. All I know is yer brother got antsy when I wouldn't shake his hand and decided to force the issue. Next thing I know he's airborne, like he's touched a live wire or been struck by lightning or something." Damnedest thing I've seen in a long time.

I can smell her doubt; her face is a mask of disbelief, her eyes narrowed to slits. "You saying he threw himself across the hall?"

"I didn't hit him, Jessie." If I had he'd still be counting stars instead of struggling to sit up already.

Phil flops on his side, limbs still rag doll limp, shaking his head like he's trying to stave off dizziness. Concerned, Jessie helps him to his feet.

"Will one of you please tell me what the hell is going on?" she pants and she stoops beneath the Phil's weight. She's on her own. The jackass is her brother, not mine. And I ain't none too pleased to read the disbelief pooling in her eyes when she looks at me.

Ignoring his sister's demand, Phil fixes his glassy-eyed attention on me. The palsied shaking of his hands quits when he grips Jessie's arm for support but the bunched jaw muscles either side of his face continue to spasm as he grinds his teeth, not from the shock of being knocked on his ass, but from raw animosity. His lips writhe into a grimace worthy of a man who just took a bite out of a turd sandwich.

"You're a mutant!"

The way he says it makes the M-word sound like it's syphilis, AIDS and necrotising fasciitis all rolled into one. I don't get it. Did I just run slap bang into a wall of X-factor related condescension?

"That makes two of us, bub!"

Does the motherfucker think he's a better class of mutant? He wants to play that game I'll make him wish he'd never gone there. Don't care whose fucking brother he is.

Jessie's snort of exasperation fills the sudden hostile silence. Failing to get an explanation from Phil she directs her next question at me. "If you didn't hit him then what the hell happened?"

I want an answer to that question too. Shrugging I reply, "Beats the fuck outta me. Ask _him_." I indicate the rapidly recovering snot-wipe clinging to her arm.

"Phil?"

"He hit me with some sort of electrical shock."

Incredulous now, Jessie re-aquires me in her sight. "Logan, is there something about your powers you maybe forgot to mention?"

Can't believe she just asked that. "Like what? You think I'm the fucking Energizer Bunny now?"

There's a ghost of a smile on her face which quickly vanishes when she asks, "Could it have been static electricity then?"

"Maybe. Does your brother moonlight as Captain Nylon in his spare time?"

"You're not being very helpful, Logan."

"No," Phil says, his denial emphatic. "There was no crackle of discharging electrons and it didn't affect _him. _It was something else." His stare hardens into undisguised condemnation and settles on me.

"Don't look at me, Einstein. This is a first for me too."

Phil's eyebrows crawl almost up to his hairline as he registers silent contempt. "If you do not discharge physical energy then what power to you have? Is it psionic? Did you hit me with a mind-blast?"

"Nope. No fancy-ass zap capability of any kind. All I have is a healing factor." Oh, and big ass metal claws but let's not go there.

"A recovering healing factor," Jessie chips in making me wonder if she overheard the last part of mine and Phil's conversation.

Phil stares at me, eyes bulging. Can't make up my mind if it's an after effect of his shock or something I said.

"Your healing factor is active? Right now?"

I shrug dismissively. "It's always active."

"Am I missing something here?" Jessie looks at each of us in turn.

"You and me both," I shoot back.

Looking thoughtful Phil falls silent for a few moments. I can smell his anger being seeded by amazement as he reaches a conclusion. "I believe your friend's healing factor just repulsed my passive examination."

Sounds plausible. Another spike of fury sears my nostrils but this time it ain't Phil, it's Jessie. She's incandescent and forcefully shakes herself free of her brother's grip like he's been dipped in puke. "You were snooping?" Stress has boosted her tone a whole octave higher. Classic danger signal.

Phil goes on the defensive. "You told me he was critically ill. I simply wanted to know…"

"If I was stringing ya along!" Fucker was checking me out. Reckon he got more than he bargained for.

"Like I can't differentiate between critical and faking it? I can't believe you were snooping! What have I told you about vetting my goddamn friends, Phil?"

Under fire once more, Phil opts for damage limitation. "His story didn't add up. Why didn't you tell me he was a mutant, Jay?"

This guy really needs to take a class in how not to be an asshole. Maybe he and One-eye should start a support group. Assholes Anonymous. Yeah, that's got a ring to it. Can see it now. My name is Phil and I'm an asshole. Haven't said anything dumb or insensitive for two whole minutes but I'm working on it…

Jessie is obviously working herself through the whole asshole angle too. "For the same reason I didn't tell you his shoe size and his inside leg measurement. It's irrelevant. And for your information Logan is not Mister Rebound and our relationship is not an infatuation. And I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself."

Not an infatuation? That's news to me.

Phil looks and smells furious, his cheeks flare deep red as he burns with both frustration and rage. She ain't finished with him yet though.

"And while he's a guest in this house I expect you to treat him with at least a veneer of civility." Turning away, Jessie retrieves the bags and parcels from the table. "Now, aren't there two special people expecting you home for dinner?"

Knowing when to beat a strategic withdrawal, Phil relieves his sister of part of her burden. "You're right. I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget you can look out for yourself. I…I know how badly David's treachery affected you and I just don't want to see you get hurt again so soon."

Sounds like an apology but it ain't. Smells more like a desire to kick butt. The glance he casts in my direction is chock-full of venom. There's something else going on here.

Reducing her anger wattage to slightly pissed off, Jessie responds, "I know you're only trying to look out for me Phil. But I'm not the shrinking violet type. Life is all about taking the rough with the smooth, bro'. You wanna eat omelette ya gotta break a few eggs. Come on, I'll help you carry this stuff out to your car."

Phil lingers as Jessie opens the door and heads for the Beamer. Before he, too, exits the house he twists his head and spits out, "I don't know who the fuck you are, where you come from or what sort of hold you have on my sister. I know people. I'm going to find out every sordid little detail about you."

Hell, wish to fuck someone would. Wonder how this clown'd feel if he knew he'd be doing me a favour? "Well when ya do gimme a call and we can reminisce."

"I'm warning you, mister. I'm going to find out and when I do I'm going to kick your roughneck ass the hell out of her life. No one takes advantage of a Commeau."

"Is that right?"

For Jessie's sake I've shown restraint, kept my temper in check, but it's a rapidly diminishing commodity. Thankfully, before I can tell the ass-rag to go butt-fuck himself with a stick of sweating dynamite, he's gone and I'm left glaring at an empty doorway.

Twins.

Brother and sister.

Ying and yang.

They're like opposite poles. One is irresistibly attracted and the other violently repelled. Thank fuck Phil's not the south to my north or I'd hafta kill the prick for sure.

**My thanks to Dee (MidLifeCrisis), for the beta work.**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter One. And as for those who emailed me demanding an update, I hope the wait was worth it. :0)**

**I'm a review junkie. If you enjoyed reading this latest instalment, or even if ya didn't, please feed my habit. :0)**


	3. Three's a Crowd, Four's a Species War

Please forgive the lateness of this chapter. So many distractions have kept me away from the keyboard and I've been having an argument with my muse about what should have been the ending to this Chapter. In the end I split it in half, my dilemma unresolved, just to give you something to read…finally.

Thank you for sticking with this story and for reviewing. Special thanks to Dee (MidLifeCrisis), my beta. Hope you enjoy this new instalment. :0)

**Chapter Three: Three's a Crowd, Four's a Species War.**

Jessie's battered red Toyota is parked untidily in the drive. Probably coz she was too damn tired to care after our short but vigorously sweet failure to keep our hands and other body parts off each other last night. I didn't want her to drive home from Tilda's place but she insisted her Mom not be left alone in case something went wrong at the hospital. I declined her invite to stay over at the Commeau house, more to spare the blushes of her Mom than anything else. Figure the woman's got enough shit to contend with without me adding to it.

No blue Beamer in the drive which means Jessie's asshole brother ain't here. Can't say I'm heartbroken over his absence. Pulling up next to the Toyota I climb from the cab and become an instant attraction for the two mutts as they hurtle around the side of the house. I like dogs, there's a mutual affinity between them and me so I make time for these two, hunkering down to accept their zealous greeting. Much barking, slobbering and leaping around ensues as they welcome me like an old friend. The noise alerts someone inside the house and as the front door yawns open I extricate myself from the wriggling heap of Spaniel.

A pleasantly plump woman steps out onto the porch and proceeds to make an elegant descent of the steps. I'm struck by her similarity to Jessie so I guess she's gotta be Mamma Commeau. The cut of her grey pants suit compliments rather than emphasises her figure and three strings of real pearls grace the pale pink silk shirt beneath her jacket. Her glossy, dark brown hair is cut into a neat bob so maybe Jessie inherited her honey locks from her pop. I'm drawn to the woman's face, particularly her eyes, which are the same shape and colour as Jessie's. She's a coupla inches shorter than Jessie but the smile, even though hers has an air of sadness about it, is one I'm familiar with.

With the morning sun warming my back and an excitable canine escort gambolling around my feet, I stride towards her, attempting a friendly smile and hoping it don't scare the crap outta her.

"Hey," I say injecting something close to affability into my tone. "I'm here to drive Jessica into town."

For several heartbeats her shrewd eyes study me, searching my face, taking in my appearance. Unlike her son there's no knee-jerk antipathy; no sour expression, just polite interest. Makes a change.

"You must be Logan." Said in welcome, not accusation. Even a fucked up son of a bitch like me could get used to this if only my paranoia would quit equating smiling with other people's backstabbing and violence.

"Yeah." I stoop and tickle two sets of floppy ears, not certain if shaking hands with Jessie's Mom is the right thing to do coz my hands are slimy with dog drool. Not a good idea given the mutts both give me another thorough slobbering.

"Brett and Dolly seem to have taken a liking to you," she observes as she takes the time to pet them herself.

"Got a lot of time for dogs," I reply. Gimme dogs over people any day.

"Me too. I'm Jennifer, Jessica's mom if you haven't already guessed. Jen for short." She holds out her hand.

"Jen," I acknowledge, wiping my hands on my thighs before taking hers and shaking it.

"Come on in and make yourself at home. Jessica is rustling up something for breakfast which you are welcome to share with us. If Tilda left a corner to fill, that is." Jen chuckles, her eyes twinkling knowingly. She's obviously aware of Tilda's largesse when it comes to feeding guests; not so much bed and breakfast as bed and banquet. Tilda's breakfasts could give Maggie's specials a run for their money, that's how good they are.

"I'm fine thanks. Wouldn't mind some coffee though," I say, sniffing appreciatively at the aromas wafting from the house.

"I think I can arrange that. Come on through to the kitchen and sit yourself down Brett! Dolly! Stay."

"Thanks," I say as I follow her up the steps and into the house and leaving behind my two furry friends.

The hall is several degrees cooler than outside and the drop in temperature is welcome. Gonna be a scorching day in Annapolis today; a promise of summer. Sorta day I'd rather spend roaming the wilds than fighting my way through crowded streets and shops. Ain't too late to change my mind, I suppose but it's best I get this over with sooner rather than later. Jen leads me along the hall, past the staircase and hangs a right. Through an arched doorway I can see Jessie busying herself buttering croissants.

The kitchen is large and bright, the pale green paint and limed oak cupboards imbuing the room with a fresh and relaxing atmosphere. Warm, natural light streams through the window adding it's brightness to the overall effect. Jen indicates I take a seat at the breakfast counter so I ease my frame into a tall chair. Jessie, her croissant buttering task completed, heads for a large refrigerator. I sit, mesmerised with the way her jeans clad hips sway as she walks. Don't let yer tongue hang out, moron, you'll just make yerself look like a loon.

She pauses, looking over her shoulder and catches me ogling. A mischievous smile plays across her lips but it's the fire in her eyes that draws me in. Unadulterated passion. My heartbeat ain't the only thing that quickens as I smoulder right back at her.

"Hey, Logan. Are you ready for the big challenge this morning?"

Mind in the gutter, it takes me a moment to parse what she's saying. "Yeah, sure. You know me. Ain't afraid of anything, right?"

The rich laughter spilling from Jen's lips takes me by surprise. "You speak as if shopping is akin to warfare."

"Nah, it's way worse than that. I speak from personal experience. A sensible guy don't get between a broad and a bargain." I was about to tag ma'am on the end of that but it don't sound right. For some reason her name don't fall from my lips so easily. Dunno why but I feel uncomfortable about getting too close, even just saying her name. Fucking paranoia.

"Guys like Logan don't go shopping, Mom. When they enter a store they grab likely looking items off the nearest shelves and rails and trust to luck."

"Hey, I might be a guy but I ain't stupid," I snort. Even I understand ya don't waste hard earned bucks buying gear that won't fit. Jessie continues her progress to the fridge. An array of colourful children's drawings, pinned to the fridge door by equally colourful magnets, flutter as she pulls it open. She rummages on a shelf and emerges, each hand clutching a carton, one of orange juice, once of cream. With a deft swing of her hips she uses her ass to nudge the door shut. Did I say mesmerised? I meant riveted. I swallow hard, trying to cool my keyed up libido. Diversion needed.

"That's a nice sailboat you got out there," I say to no one in particular.

Jen chooses to answer. "Charlotte Rose my husband's pride and joy. Do you know anything about sailing, Logan?"

"Saw Moby Dick on TV coupla times."

Jessie giggles and Jen's face creases into a smile. It's eerily reminiscent of Jessie, right down to the dimples in her cheeks. "When Claude recovers I'll have him and Jessica take you out. You'll love it."

"Look forward to it."

I can hear a car pulling into the drive. Engine's smooth purr tells me it's asshole's Beamer. My presumption's confirmed when the draught created by him opening the front door carries his scent through the house. He'll have seen the Jeep which explains the taint of anger mixed with his scent. And what's that? A whiff of unadulterated loathing? Guess a good night's sleep ain't mellowed his disposition none since yesterday.

"We're in the kitchen, Phillip," Jen calls out to her son.

Phil strolls into the kitchen trying to look nonchalant, a watery grimace twisting his lips into a parody of a smile. Uneasy don't describe what's pouring off of him. Dunno what the fuck's going on with this bozo but he's scared shitless and his proximity to me sends him into adrenaline overload. He smells and looks like he's caught a rattlesnake by the tail.

"Morning." He plants a light kiss on his mother's cheek but his gaze keeps darting towards me. Wonder what new development has given him another cramp in his chronically spastic colon?

"Bright and early, I see," his mother replies. "How are the girls today?"

"They're fine," he says, casting me another sidelong look. I get the impression he don't wanna discuss his girls with me in the room. "How's my baby sister this morning?" he enquires with forced cheer.

"Me being twenty three minutes younger than you doesn't qualify as baby, bro'." Jessie, busy pouring coffee, doesn't turn around to acknowledge his presence. Body language and the faintly acrid scent of mild annoyance says she's still pissed at him for yesterday. Guess what, so am I.

Picking up on Jessie's coolness he makes a friendly overture, perhaps intent on mending the bridge he stupidly burned down with his jerk-off behaviour. "Lily loved the doll. She's drawn you a picture as a thank you." Reaching into his slacks pocket he pulls out a carefully folded piece of paper and hands it over. Taking it, Jessie opens it up and turns on a warm, high wattage smile.

"Oh that's so sweet. Look, Mom."

Holding up the picture I can see a stick woman with blue hair and a big green smiling face. There are two brown and yellow blobs that might be dogs. Underneath, written in the hand of a young child, are the words _thank you JJ_.

"This one gets front and centre," Jessie says brightly and proceeds to fasten the picture to the fridge door using a spare magnet.

Ignoring me Phil strolls over to the coffee and snags two cups, handing one to his mother. Is it coincidence he's placed himself between his Mom and me? Nope. Numbnuts is as nervous as a nun caught sneaking into a dildo factory. What the fuck does he think I'm gonna do to her?

"You're so early I haven't eaten yet," Jen chides her son as she dodges around his stiff form, picks up a plate of croissants and a dish of fruit conserve and takes up a seat opposite me. "There's plenty to go around if you're hungry."

"Coffee will do fine, thanks."

Jessie claims the seat next to me leaving Phil standing at the end of the counter, on edge and on the spot. Reluctantly he pulls up the chair beside his mother and facing his sister. The next ten minutes seem to stretch as Jessie and her Mom set to eating and Phil broods over his coffee, flicking anxious glances in my direction as if he's expecting me to leap over the counter and tear out his throat. The talking is mostly about the progress being made by Commeau Senior, which is good. I'm content to sit next to Jessie and occasionally stare hard at her brother, sizing him up, giving him further cause for concern. What the fuck is wrong with this guy? He's sweating so profusely he risks drowning in his own excretions. Jen is the first to stand and begins clearing away the dirty dishes.

"Leave that, Mom," Jessie offers. "You go finish up making yourself beautiful for Dad, not that you need it of course, and I'll see to the dishes."

"Thank you, dear. I'll be down in ten minutes, Phillip."

"Sure, Mom."

Phil waits until his mother is safely out of the way before rising to his feet and taking Jessie by the arm.

Glaring directly at me he announces, "I need to talk to Jessica. In private."

"I..." Jessie begins.

"This is important, Jay." His eyes are pleading, willing her not to refuse him.

"Whatever. Make it quick will you because Logan and I have plans."

Allowing her brother to steer her through the kitchen door she glances at me over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Phil shuts the door firmly behind them, a tacit fuck you if ever I've seen one. I figure the bug that's crawled up his ass has gotta be the size of a bull moose and it's cowering there coz he's got a problem with me. Save for existing and liking his sister I've done nothing to warrant his loathing so I ain't gonna feel guilty about eavesdropping. After pouring myself another coffee I take up station near the open window, propping myself against the counter so I can observe this little heart-to-heart in comfort. As I suck down the hot, aromatic liquid I fine-tune my ears into what's making Phil so twitchy. Somehow I don't think it's down to caffeine.

Phil's in the lead, all but dragging his sister across the lawn and into the shade of the huge gingko. On their way they exchange strained pleasantries about the gifts Jessie sent over. When he thinks he's out of earshot the real conversation takes over. Jessie shrugs herself out of his hold and fires the first shot.

"What the hell is this about, Phil?"

He begins pacing to and fro, his steps agitated and measured, his entire demeanour fraught with emotion. "Last night I did some research on healing factors."

"What? I thought I told you to lay off interfering."

He halts, using his body to punctuate what emerges from his mouth. "Jay, you need to hear this. What I discovered is extremely disturbing." He pauses, whether for dramatic effect or to gather his courage I can't be certain but what does it fucking matter anyway? "There are a few things you need to know." The strain in his voice reflects the tension in his posture. This boy needs to seriously consider stress management.

Jessie's expression turns cold but the anger I can see glowing deep in her eyes is anything but. Phil's opening gambit has put her volatile temper on high alert.

"Like what?" Her tone is neutral dangerous, her temper primed to explode. Phil looks like a man caught in quicksand, nervous that any movement will make him sink deeper into the quagmire. He keeps flicking glances in the direction of the house but that ain't stopping him doing what he dragged her outside to do.

"Well, healing factors are pretty rare and almost always secondary mutations. Maybe something like one in twenty thousand mutants possesses one. Not much is known about them because mutants with healing factors tend not to need treatment…"

"People! They are people, Phil. Just like you. Just like me."

"Actually, no they're not." He pauses, waiting for a response which doesn't come. He gets a frosty glare though. The type that can rapidly escalate into a real nut-shriveller. "It is estimated that ninety-five percent of people with healing factors are feral."

"And the point you are trying to make is…?" Jessie's exasperation is evident. So's his.

"Have you any idea how many feral mutants are violent, psychotic sociopaths?"

Hah! Bro's done his homework. But he ain't differentiated between degrees of psycho-sociopathy. Guy like me'll only gut ya in self defence. A sick bastard'll do it for laughs and then shit in the hole for the hell of it. It's the not so subtle difference between me and the likes of Sabretooth.

"Have you any idea how many aren't?" she counters. Good point. Wonder if she's got the numbers to back that up coz I ain't.

"Take a closer look at him, Jay! The overgrown furball has feral stamped all over him. Messing with this guy is like holding a lighted match while paddling in gasoline."

Dropping her head as if studying her shoes, Jessie grinds out, "Gasoline. I see." Silence, broken only by birdsong and the breeze stirring the branches, descends. It's one of those boding silences, pregnant with tension, that radiates outwards like a subliminal scream, raising hackles and goosebumps as it washes over you. Expression hidden by her cascading hair, I watch for other tell-tale signs – the way the skin across her knuckles tightens, how her shoulder muscles bunch slightly beneath her shirt. Silence done with, Jessie raises her head and I can see her eyes ablaze with fury. Nevertheless, she keeps her voice level as she demands, "Why are you doing this?"

"You know why."

"Do I?"

The failure to communicate his fear gets him twitching some more, marked by his agitated hand movements and the grim line of his lips. "Your boyfriend isn't like a pet dog. He isn't domesticated, excitable but otherwise harmless."

"Well at least we agree on something."

Phil's eyebrows knit together. If his plan was to shock her into ditching me then it's failed miserably. "You knew! And knowing what he is you invited him into the house?"

"Of course I knew. Logan told me himself. Told me everything. Gave me the choice of sticking around or walking away. I chose to stay. And what's this house shit? Are you worried he's gonna piss on the carpets or hump someone's leg?"

Heh, gotta love the girl's sass.

Phil's gesticulations grow more frenzied. "You have no fucking idea do you? It's bad enough you want to shack up with him, let him touch you, but to expose Mom to the danger this creature embodies well that's…that's inexcusable!"

To my surprise, Jessie keeps her cool. More than I could say for myself. If he was a fly I'd tear his fucking wings off. Maybe I should settle for tearing his arms off instead. It's the hardest thing to just stand here and deny my escalating feral tendencies. Temper surging, I discover I'm gripping the coffee cup hard enough to crush it, imagining it's Phil's neck beneath my fingers. Downing the last of its contents I set the cup aside, not wanting to explain to Jen why she no longer has the full set.

"Logan is not a creature. He's a man. And for your information, he is also a kind of policeman, a member of a task force that protects the likes of you and me from rogue mutants. And when he's not saving lives he's a special needs instructor, helping young ferals to control and channel their aggression in positive ways."

I almost choke on my mouthful of coffee. Fuck! She's painting me like I'm Mother Theresa. Girl's gotta learn to understand I'm just a short-fused bastard trying to get by the best way I can. Ain't nothing heroic nor admirable about what I do.

"I thought you said he worked at a school."

"That's part of it."

"Where is this school?"

"Westchester, New York."

I watch realisation dawn across his face, a black sun casting shadows of outrage. "Wait a minute. School? Westchester? Mutant task force? Holy Mother of God, you don't mean the same school on the news a while back? The mutant terrorist training facility that got raided by government troops?"

"That was bullshit propaganda put out by a rogue element in the Pentagon so they could shoot up a mutant school, steal experimental communications equipment and kidnap some of the children and staff. The school doesn't train terrorists, it provides education and a safe haven for kids who have been rejected by their families, by society, just because of their genetic inheritance. Kids like Lily!" She pauses to let her last remark sink in. "The attack was instigated by a traitor who lied to the President in order to pursue the destruction of every mutant on the planet. Including _you_."

"Bullshit you say? What you're expecting me to believe is beyond bullshit. It's out there with Grimm's Fairytales!"

Jessie shakes her head, the force of her denial throwing her hair in an arc around her shoulders. "You're wrong. The school's still there, still in business. Work it out for yourself."

"And you'll be what, fighting alongside these people? Possibly against the authorities, or even your erstwhile military friends?"

"It won't come to that. Professor Xavier is a man of peace. A visionary. He strives towards mutant integration with the population. Meanwhile, I'll be training the kids how to defend themselves in the old fashioned way, without powers, against those who would wish them harm. And in turn being trained to fly Professor Xavier's Swearingen jet. That's a significant step up from helo pilot wouldn't you say?"

What? Fucking Summers is the only qualified flight instructor at the school. Is he the one she talks to about her love of flying? What's the odds against him not offering his services to train Jessie? The sneaky streak of dick-slime needs to watch out coz if he makes a move on her he won't live long enough to count the loops of steaming intestines coiling on his shoes as they slither from his belly.

"But Jay, why risk your reputation, possibly your life, working with a group of people who, to be perfectly honest, are viewed with more than a little suspicion and alarm by ordinary folk? Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."

"What reputation is that? I resigned from the Navy half a step ahead of a dishonourable discharge remember."

"I'm not comfortable with the idea of you doing this. I don't want my only sister to be injured or worse fighting in the name of a doubtful cause."

Dunno how many bequerels of fuckwit radiation this asshole's giving off but I'm damn certain it's several times the lethal dose. Bastard's dead from the neck up and he don't even know it. Wonder if he'd change his tune if he discovered that same doubtful cause saved the world's ass just a few months ago. Twice!

"Has me being with Logan blinded you so much?" Jessie steps away from her brother, half turning as she does so, folding her arms across her chest like a shield.

"I'm not the one who needs to open my eyes here, Jay."

Snapping her head around to face him she fires back, "Listen to yourself will you? You sound more like one of those Sapien League bigots than a doctor blessed with the gift for diagnosing any illness with a single touch. I embraced potential doubtful causes in the name of protecting US citizens the day I enrolled at the Naval Academy. This is no different."

Closing the gap he presses his argument. "Of course it's different. Those people aren't the Navy, or the Army, or the Air Force. They're no better than a private militia. Our own government thought they were goddamn terrorists. You would honestly risk everything just to be with _him_?"

"What's your problem, Phil? What has Logan ever done to you to earn your unmitigated resentment?"

"Have you looked at him? I mean really looked at him? The guy is a feral, an animal. Anyone less than an improvement on David I can't think of!"

One arm unfolds and Jessie stabs her finger at her brother's chest forcing him to step away. "I don't give a stuff what you think. He isn't a selfish Daddy's boy, that's for sure. Logan is more likely to watch my back than stab me in it."

Not bothering to hide his incredulity dickweed spits out, "Oh, come on. How can you possibly know that?"

"Because he already has!"

This shuts him up for a handful of seconds while he takes this new information on board. Knocked off track Phil changes tactics. "Is this what it's all about? You're fucking him and in doing so fucking up your life out of gratitude?"

Jessie's eyes narrow to slits. If she was a cat her tail would be switching violently. "I sleep with Logan because I like him. Because he's a real nice guy. Because he's not a self-centred, arrogant little prick like David. And because he makes me come with the intensity of a nuclear detonation. Satisfied?"

Bro's mouth gapes wide with shock when Jessie delivers her show-stopper. Stunned, he seems to collapse in on himself, shrivelling under the blunt admission from his sister. For a moment I think the fight's over but then he inflates like a bullfrog with an air pump shoved up its ass.

"Sexual gratification? For this you put Mom's life at risk?" Slowly, he raises his hand to his head and for a moment I think he's gonna cross himself like a good Catholic boy. Instead he nervously rubs his face as if trying to relieve the sting of a slap. "Jay, this just isn't you. What the hell has gotten into you girl?"

"Apart from Logan you mean? Nothing! Zilch, zero, absolutely fucking zip. Logan is not an animal and no way would he harm Mom." Pausing to draw in a deep breath, she continues her relentless assault. "You know what, Phil?"

"What?"

"Yesterday, when I found out Logan was on his way down here, I told Mom about him being a feral, explained what that meant, and she's okay with it. She asked to meet him."

He looks at her, reproach written all over his face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"If you have to ask that question then you don't deserve an answer!"

"I'm your brother. Your twin brother! Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Not since you became so bloody interfering and sanctimonious!"

With that one line Jessie finesses an unprecedented third act of her super-whammy. Bastard asked for it and she served it up; hammering in the truth with the subtlety of an avalanche, grinding his argument down to pulp. Ain't the killer stroke though. There's still fight in the asshole. Phil's panting hard, trying to rein in his disintegrating control. Adrenalin fuelled fury suffuses his features so deeply his cheeks are the colour of a baboon's ass. Reckon he's about as pissed as a guy can get and still function on a civilised level.

"What I think is that deep down, way down where the real Jay has been buried, you're ashamed. Ashamed of what you've become. You couldn't tell me to my face because your conscience wouldn't let you."

The words squeeze from between his lips; venomous, inexorable, full of despair. His mantle of righteousness has slipped and what's simmering beneath is raw and destructive. He's been pushed beyond his limits, fatally wounded by one of his own. I take no pleasure in watching the man's emotional collapse coz I'm fucking certain I've been there myself. Waves of negative emotion wash over me and for a second I'm him. Betrayed. Rejected. Desolate. I can empathise but I ain't got no fucking sympathy for him. If ya don't wanna be knocked down ya don't stand up and tell the man with the piece of two by four to take his best swing.

In contrast, Jessie's complexion is pale and eerily calm; the Ice Queen personified. Voice hard and as cold as a glacier, she grinds out, "That does it. I'm sick of your sermonising. Whether you like it or not Logan and I are together and you…you can go to fucking hell."

Jessica storms off, heading towards the shore, her brother following close behind, demanding, almost pleading, that she stop and talk to him but she ain't listening. He tries to catch her shoulder, to halt her progress, to make her turn and face him but she fends him off, blindly flailing her arm in his direction. I sense she's beyond his ability to reach her right now, beyond immediate reconciliation. He's hurt her too deeply, stupid fuck. The only reason I ain't out there decking the sanctimonious asswipe myself is because Jessie wouldn't thank me for my input.

I'm debating whether or not to go out there and get her the hell away here when Jen chooses this moment to return to the kitchen. A frown deepens the wrinkles on her forehead.

"Did I hear raised voices?"

I don't insult her intelligence by feigning ignorance of what's going on in the garden. "You did. They took it outside but I reckon they're done." Or at least Jessie's done.

Arms folded, Jen leans forward and looks through the window in time to witness her daughter stalking angrily along the shore, ignoring her brother's pleas to stop. Evidently unhappy with what she sees Jen's lips purse into a moue of disappointment.

"Oh dear."

Not quite the way I'd word it. Her shitwit son thinks ferals are psychotic mutant trash. All ferals. And knowing one's fucking his sister is sticking in his craw and choking him. Yesterday he was merely an obnoxious, condescending prick. Today he's slimed his way further up the dizzying heights of assholeness and added hypocritical bigot to his repertoire. Jerk-off.

Perhaps sensing my irritation Jen goes into advocate mode. "This isn't your fault, you know," she reassures me as she watches her conflicted children with saddened eyes. "Jessica's temper has been so volatile since her break up with David. Phillip isn't helping by playing the protective older brother. He is concerned she is being hasty entering into another relationship so soon but all he seems to be achieving is making himself the focus of her anger rather than David."

Jessie's temper was fine until asshole started in on her. What's the betting she's gonna be pissy with me for the rest of the day while she works through her bad. My gaze follows Jessie as she stalks along the shore, dimwit brother dogging her heels.

"Jessie has a mind of her own, Jen. She knows how to take care of herself. I discovered that from the outset."

She smiles wanly. "Just like her father." She emits a deep sigh. "The situation in the garden seems to be very heated. I hope no permanent damage has been done to their relationship."

Don't give a shit whether it has or it hasn't. "I'm sure they'll work it out," I reply trying to inject false sincerity into the words. Solution's simple, Jen. Your son should learn to keep his big fucking mouth shut.

"Tact is not one of Phillip's virtues," she admits as if she can read my thoughts. This gets me to wondering. Breathing in her scent I check for active X Factor. It isn't there. So why is she telling me these things? Is it some sort of test?

"I wouldn't know," I lie.

Tearing my gaze away from Jessie's retreating figure I find Jen studying me once more. Suddenly aware she's been caught staring, she blushes. "Forgive me. You are so unlike David it comes as something of a shock."

Can't help being what I am, lady. I breathe in her scent, testing for negativity but there is none, well nothing I need worry about. "You ain't the first one to feel that way. Ain't gonna be the last."

"I've offended you. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise. I ain't offended. Yer being honest and I don't have a problem with that."

Reassured, she relaxes. "You've made quite an impression on my daughter, Logan. Jessica waited several months before announcing she and David were going steady. I learned of your existence within twenty four hours of you two meeting."

Wonder what Jen'd say if she knew the impression I usually make on people is the fist in the belly kind? Come to think of it, Jessie knows how to make an impression too. Girl's got one helluva mean right hook. Not to mention the efficient way she uses her knee to crush nuts. I quirk the corner of my mouth into the briefest smile as visions of Jessie handing those Atlantic City pussies their fat asses drift through my mind.

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for damsels in distress." Working in a snake pit like the Auger would distress any decent broad. Still don't understand how she ended up there but at least she don't need to go back.

"Defending my daughter's honour against those creeps is something I'll always be grateful for."

Yeah, saved it and then thoroughly corrupted it less than an hour later, not that she needed much persuasion. Beating the righteous crap outta a bunch of chickenshit greaseballs really juices up the libido. "She told you about that, huh?"

"The shiner needed explaining."

I guess it would. "She gave better," I reply, trying to keep my expression serious.

Jen sighs again and then shakes her head. "Jessica always was a tomboy," she says, a hint of humour putting a twinkle in her eyes. "There were times when I thought I had two sons, not one."

Well she's all woman now. "So, no froufrou dresses and dolls houses then?"

"Heavens no. Outside of school it was always jeans and T shirts. Toys never really interested her. As a child Jessica loved sailing. I swear she was born with seawater in her veins. Her passion for flying manifested at around ten or eleven when we flew to England for a holiday."

That's odd. If she has an enthusiasm for sailing and flying Jessie sure don't talk about it much. Not with me. Wonder why? Maybe when she's with me she's too busy thinking about other things…

"Is that why she joined the Navy?"

Nodding her head Jen continues, "One of the reasons. A major influence in her life was her grandfather, a larger than life, salt of the earth character if ever there was one. From the time Jessica was old enough to crawl up onto his knee and beg for a story he regaled her with tall tales of the sea and his years in the navy, most of them quite incredible, full of pirates and treasure. Some of the contemporary ones may have had some basis in truth. He ought to have written a book. All of the stories were thrilling of course, designed to fire a child's imagination. They certainly fired Jessica's. He's the main reason she joined the navy in the first place. Becoming a Navy pilot was her dream, all she ever wanted to do."

And she gave up her dream to save the rep of some worthless, disloyal piece of crap? Why for chrissake? An unworthy thought pops into my forebrain and begins to fester. If this hadn't happened I would never have met her. Lover boy fucked up her life but he did me a favour.

Damn! Where the hell did that come from? One-eye once accused me of being selfish and shallow. With thoughts like that he wasn't wide of the mark was he? Feeling guilty, unable to formulate a comment Jen would find palatable, I remain silent.

A shadow of regret falls across her face, deepening the lines on her forehead into contours. "Georges was dying, battling terminal cancer. It was the proudest moment of his life seeing Jessica graduate from the Academy with honours. His little scrapper in the Navy, a pilot no less. I swear it was all that kept him going for the last few months of his life."

Little scrapper? "Sounds like quite a guy."

"He was. In a way you remind me of him. Tall, rugged and with a shock of unruly hair. His was red though."

Oh, wonderful! A girl gets the hots for me coz I remind her of Gramps? Hardly a fucking boost to a guy's ego is it? Quick change of subject needed. "If the Navy meant so much to her why did she quit? Was a blemish on her service record something she couldn't live with?"

"She told you about the indiscretion did she?"

"Not in so many words but…yeah."

Doubt infects her tone. "I'm not sure I should be discussing this with you. Perhaps you should ask Jessica…"

Ain't gonna mellow Jessie none if I broach the subject after her bust up with the asshole. I use the scrap of information Jessie confided in me the first time I stayed over at her place. "They were caught fraternising and his daddy cut a deal to get lover boy off the hook. But it came at a high price, didn't it?"

"It should never have been allowed to go so far. Considering what happened in Iraq I'm certain the Navy would have dealt leniently with her indiscretion. A censure perhaps, at worst loss of pay."

I know Jessie's body intimately, the way she smells, the way she looks, the way she responds to my touch. Seems I know fuck all about who she really is. At some stage I'm gonna hafta quit letting my dick do the talking and engage my mouth and brain. Feeling stupid I nevertheless gotta ask, "What happened in Iraq?"

"She didn't tell you?"

I shake my head.

"It doesn't surprise me. It took her father and I several days to tease the entire story out of her. Truth be told, she felt embarrassed talking about it and desperately tried to play down her role in the affair."

Play what down? What affair? What did she do?

"I've always known Jessica possessed fortitude and the day people everywhere suffered those terrible, paralysing headaches, the day so many people died, she proved it."

Jen pauses, looking reflectively out of the window. C'mon, woman. Neither of us are getting any younger. What did she do? Shit! Was she flying? Did the attack cause her to crash?

"What happened, Jen? Was she flying? Did she get hurt?"

"Yes, she was flying but she didn't crash if that is what you're worried about. Jessica was flying shotgun for two Super Stallion marine helicopters when the catastrophic affliction occurred. Paralysed, practically blinded by immense pain, the pilots of the other two helicopters lost control and began to veer dangerously around the sky. Death seemed imminent, either from a mid air collision or from crashing into the desert below. Jessica remained calm and was able to keep the other pilots focused throughout the duration of the ordeal by constantly screaming orders at them via radio. Her prompt action saved over sixty lives, aircrew and Marines. Sadly, not everyone was so lucky and Jessica lost some good friends that day and I strongly suspect she feels guilty she survived what they did not."

"How the hell did she overcome the pain, let alone save others?" I demand.

When Stryker's genocide machine fired up not even I was immune to its effect. It felt like my head was trying to explode and the pain was excruciating, second only to the bonding process. I was as helpless as a baby and had Stryker hung around long enough to gloat he could have finished me off, no problem. I couldn't even unsheathe my claws to defend myself. I know coz I tried, instinctively reacting to a threat response.

Taken aback by the ferocity of my question, Jen flinches. "She survived because she wasn't affected."

"What?" That's impossible. Not affected? What the fuck…?

"Neither was I. Both Phillip and Claude succumbed and from your reaction I guess you did too. From what they told me, their ordeal was harrowing in the extreme. I'm thankful they both survived the experience unscathed."

I thought everyone had been affected. Mutants first and then baseline humans. "How…?" I trail off, unwilling to incriminate myself. Like it or not, I was part of what went down at Alkali Lake. I could have, _should have_ stopped Stryker instead of wasting vital minutes drifting around that lab and feeling sorry for myself.

"I wouldn't like to hazard a guess but Phillip formulated a plausible hypothesis with the aid of his gift."

Yeah, the fucker's just brimming with theories ain't he. "Plausible how?"

"Logan, what do you know about how the X gene affects people?"

I shrug. "Not much. Some have the X gene, most don't. Of those that do, many are latent while others develop powers. Are you saying latents weren't affected?" Shit, Jen must be latent too.

"According to Phillip, the majority of latents fell victim to the headaches. He had the opportunity to examine a few during the ensuring state of emergency. A small percentage, however, did not."

"How come?" Don't make sense that some escaped the influence of Stryker's jury-rigged Cerebro.

"According to Phillip there are not three variations governing the human genetic condition, there are four."

Not many things make me blink and perform a double-take but this does. Humans are scared shitless by the current situation. A new mutant variation, if it exists, could only serve to fan the flames of panic. As if things ain't fucked up enough.

"Go on," I urge, trying to moisten a mouth gone suddenly dry as ashes.

"The first group is the largest. Ordinary people are classed as X Factor Negative, baseline humans as some would have it."

She looks at me, as if gauging my response so I keep my expression neutral, giving nothing away. Political correctness ain't something I lose sleep over. Particularly since some of those baselines tore apart my mind, tortured me and poured metal over my bones.

"Mutants are XF Positive, their powers fully realised." I already know all this, sister so when're ya gonna get to the punch-line? "It has always been assumed that latents, people who carry the X gene but have no manifest powers, are, to all intents and purposes, on a par with ordinary people. The difference being latents carry the potential to produce mutant offspring. They are classified as XF Passive, as you know."

Actually I didn't. Course I know about latents but I never looked that deep into it. Either yer a mutant or ya ain't. There ain't no in between. Or so I thought. Guess nasty surprises get to creep up on me real fast these days.

"So what makes the fourth group special?" Whatever the fuck you are.

"The fourth group, the most uncommon, falls between Passive and Positive. Phillip described this group as XF Inhibited. Effectively XFIs are mutants whose powers have failed to manifest due to factors unknown. The analogy he used compared XFIs to cars without wheels."

"How come no one noticed this before?"

"I asked the same question. People have been known to discover their powers late in life but it has always been assumed the powers were present at puberty but were never noticed until something traumatic happened to bring them to prominence. Obviously this latest discovery sheds new light on the subject. The genetic difference between Passives and Inhibiteds is so subtle even Phillip had difficulty detecting it while using his gift. He feels it is unlikely anyone else has discovered this fourth genetic condition although it is quite possible its existence has been brought to the attention of others following the aftermath of that awful day. So far no papers have been published postulating any theory and he is unaware of any research being conducted in this field."

Doesn't mean there ain't none though. And it's unlikely that certain interests failed notice a few escaped the agony. If brother Phil is on the button this gives monsters like Stryker a fresh source of victims. Fuck subtle. It's one helluva difference. The difference between life and death. Shit! Bet Charlie don't know about this. I'll hafta inform him so he can reprogram Cerebro to monitor the people who've slipped through his psychic net. "Does he plan to write a paper on this?"

"Goodness me, no. Being a mutant himself he understands the ramifications if he does. It would jeopardise the safety of others, including Jessica and myself. Idiots like the Sapien League do not need another minority objective to focus their hate on."

Sensible guy. "Good. Best that it stays that way."

Then the implication hits home. Stryker didn't know about XFIs. He fucked up. Once, possibly twice. Did he disregarded the latents as a threat or were they included in his initial attack? Maybe he assumed his genocide machine would automatically wipe out anyone carrying the X gene. Obviously he was wrong. Might be important to find out if the latents keeled over with the mutants or the baselines but that's Charlie's job, not mine. My money's on the baseline theory since the latent X factor is inactive, simply excess baggage, performing no function other than to be passed on via DNA.

Stryker missed an entire group coz no one knew they existed. And thanks to him they've been revealed. His attempt to destroy mutants failed. Spectacularly. And not just coz of the obvious reason. Perhaps XFIs evolved to prevent a catastrophe like this. The irony of his humungous cluster-fuck forces a chuckle out of me. It's a grim, strangled sound, devoid of humour.

Her face clouding over Jen sounds indignant when she asks, "You find something amusing about this?"

"No," I deny, shaking my head vehemently. "I lost…a close friend that day. A lot of people died or were hurt. There's nothing amusing about what happened. It's just the irony of it all."

"What so you mean?"

"Just something a nut-job scientist said to me once. I…it's not something I want to talk about, kay?"

"Then I shall not pry." But she'd like to. She is intensely curious but thankfully Jen lets the matter drop, returning to the previous topic.

"David's betrayal wounded Jessica very deeply. They were less than a month away from their engagement too. I never thought he would turn on her so callously in order to save his own reputation. What he did and said bordered on vindictive, especially since his culpability was equal to Jessica's own. He accused her of using emotional blackmail to force assignations upon him. The very idea!"

She was gonna marry the bastard? Jeezus! How come that little factoid slipped her mind? Or the one about her latency? Maybe she reckons it's none of my business. Brings home to me how little I actually know her. "Given what he did maybe it was for the best," I suggest.

"Maybe. What really puzzles me is Jessica's philosophical acceptance of the loss of her career, walking away from it without so much as glancing over her shoulder. Giving up without a fight is so unlike her. David has a lot to answer for."

"And no civilian outfit would take her on," I add.

She looks at me askance, surprised that I would know about that. "You would have thought aviation companies would have beaten a path to her door. Navy trained pilots are highly prized after all. Jessica was determined to fly again but she continually failed to impress prospective employers. Perhaps she wore her stigma like a badge or they picked up on her lack of enthusiasm for civil aviation. I suppose, after an exciting military career, anything less would pale by comparison."

Yeah, I can imagine going from kicking major ass to flying milk runs throwing Jessie into a tailspin. The prospect of flying for Oconus must have seemed like a godsend.

"It was heartbreaking watching her confidence eroding as her prospects diminished with every rejection. Eventually, she travelled to New York on the promise of a job, only to have her hopes cruelly dashed once more. Apparently some silly clerk got his wires crossed and gave her incorrect information. The position had been filled weeks before so her journey was wasted. Or so she believed. While sitting in the waiting room Jessica saw an advert in one of the magazines. A logistics company was recruiting ex-military personnel, including helicopter pilots, from a temporary office in Westchester. Being so close Jessica decided to try her luck. The recruiting process took quite some time and rather than ask us for money to help pay her bills she took a job in that awful bar."

"Where she found _me_," I point out with wry humour.

Raising her hand to her mouth as if trying to take back her embarrassing comment she reddens and says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply…"

"'S okay," I assure her. "Don't hang out there for the company, just the beer. Best in the district." Last place I'd expect to find someone like Jessie.

Looking decidedly sheepish Jen says, "It doesn't matter where she found you. You gave Jessica back her smile. And her opportunity to fly again. To train as a jet pilot no less. I thank you for that."

"Even knowing what I am?" I'm trusting that Jessie wasn't leading her brother around by the nose out in the garden.

"Logan, my son is a mutant. Both Jessica and I are latent mutants. Your being closer to nature than most people would find comfortable doesn't make you a bad person."

Closer to nature? Well it beats being called an animal. "Ya think?" Shame yer frigging son don't share yer sentiments.

"It's how you live your life that matters. You risk your life to help others, that much Jessica has shared with me although she did not go into detail. She holds you in high regard and, having seen you for myself, I am inclined to accept her judgement despite your daunting appearance."

She likes me? Fuck! If this carries on I'm gonna hafta start wearing shades to disguise myself in the street.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." I think.

"I realise my son's behaviour falls short of acceptable. He sees you as a symptomatic complication of David's betrayal rather than a genuine suitor for Jessica's affection. He needs time to adjust."

Why don't she just say rebound? It's what everyone else wants to believe. The idea's even passed through my mind.

"Ain't like that." Taking a gigantic leap of faith, I decide to confide in Jen. "Can't explain it but something drew us together. We just kinda connected ya know?"

"Jessica said much the same thing. When news of your recovery reached her she was euphoric. Her father's cautious but promising prognosis put the icing on her cake. Then she discovered you were making your way to Annapolis and it was like all her Christmases had come at once. Never have I seen my daughter look more spirited, more vivacious. Sadly, that is the source of contention between Jessica and her brother. He cannot understand why she should be as concerned for the wellbeing of a comparative stranger as she would her own father. Admitting to being somewhat mystified myself I understood her feelings for you the moment I observed the way she looked at you when you strolled into the kitchen. The fire in Jessica's eyes never burned that intensely for David."

"It didn't?" Are those words of encouragement and acceptance or an admission designed to scare the shit out of me? There's no guile, nothing to suggest she's being anything other than forthright. I take her at her word.

"Please do not think badly of Phillip. Despite what you have witnessed he and his sister are very close. He has old fashioned values, so like his father in that respect. And Jessica, being a free spirit, confounds his principles sometimes. In my son's eyes womenfolk are to be cosseted and shielded from harm. He feels it is his place to protect his sister from the ills of the world."

"You're kidding. Jessie could kick his a…butt six ways from Sunday."

Patting my arm, pretty much like Maggie would, she sighs, "I know. But men can be so pig-headed sometimes."

Her quiet laughter is so infectious I add a belly laugh of my own. Together we watch the drama outside draws to a close as the two siblings, differences unresolved, make their way back to the house.

**Please review. I live for the feedback. :0)**


	4. Conspiracy and other theories

Apologies to all who have been waiting patiently for this update. Unfortunately, life keeps getting in the way of pleasure so once more I have halved my intended chapter to avoid any further delay. You may be pleased to know that the bulk of the next chapter is already written but still needs work because it is almost solid action. Hope you continue to enjoy Full Metal Anarchy despite the production problems. :0)

**Chapter 4: Conspiracy And Other Theories**

"Good morning, Logan."

Damn he's fast. Frigging phone never even got a chance to ring. He got my caller ident rigged up to Cerebro or something?

"I assume this isn't a social call."

Well I'll be… Cynicism from Xavier? Maybe I'm beginning to rub off on him. But he's right, this ain't no social call. It's the reason I stayed put while Jessie's out dropping off the mutts at a neighbour's house for the day.

"Does the term X Factor Inhibited mean anything to ya?"

The pattern of his breathing changes and there's a pause, the kind I'da filled with _What the fuck?_ "Yes. It is a phrase coined by Henry McCoy. Several years ago he wrote a scientific paper postulating the existence of the condition and its effects on any individual so afflicted. I'm curious as to how you happened across an obscure term known only to a few specialised geneticists."

I betcha are. "Well ya better tell him to revise it coz it ain't postulation no more."

Another significant pause. It's childish I know but I'm getting a minor kick outta knocking the old buzzard out of his high and mighty orbit.

"You have proof of this?"

Do I ever. Don't need to see Charlie to know I just wiped that damned beatific smile off his face. His cultured voice has shifted pitch; more brusque with a subtle nuance of…what is that? Excitement?

"Living and breathing," I announce. Unlike the countless poor bastards who ain't.

"How? I mean…"

"When Stryker and Magneto had you mindfuck the world not everyone felt their brains trying to burst outta their skulls."

"If this is true…" Yet another pause. I'm on a roll this morning. Xavier falls back on that affable headmaster tone of his. Evidently he's brought his zeal to heel. "Henry speculated upon whether or not an inhibited mutant is, in fact, a true mutant. Since this individual was unaffected by the Alkali Lake incident it indicates he, or indeed she, is neither truly a mutant nor truly human. Fascinating."

Glad ya think so Cue-ball, but what does it mean? If Jessie ain't a mutant or human what the fuck is she?

"I would like to meet this person. Would your acquaintance be willing to discuss the experience?"

"I'm sure she would but you'll hafta wait for her pop to get better."

The sharp intake of breath in my ear is the frosting on the muffin. He ain't so fucking all seeing or all knowing as he likes to believe. "You are referring to Jessica?"

"Yup."

"I find it strange she failed to mention this to me. She shared this confidence with you?"

I've learned that Jessie likes to play her cards close to her chest. 'Sides, why the hell should she tell you and not me? "Nope, her mom did. Momma Commeau didn't get fried either. Jessie's bro's a mutant, a physician who can diagnose at a touch. He wanted to know why his womenfolk weren't affected. Figure he musta stumbled across Hank's paper when he was researching the phenomenon. He told his mom about XFIs and she's the one who told me."

"Who else is privy to this information?"

"About being XFI? You, me and the Commeaus, I reckon. They're a pretty cagey bunch." With 'em carrying the X gene mouthing off would be suicidal.

"Not that. Who else knows about Jessica?"

Ain't got a fucking clue. "'S Possible half the US Navy and Marine Corps know about Jessie by now. She was airborne when the mindfuck hit and talked down two affected pilots. Lotta marines owe her their lives. Knowledge of her mom is restricted to family, me and now you."

"So many know about Jessica? That is unfortunate. It exposes her to the scrutiny of anyone astute enough to examine the facts and arrive at the same conclusion as Doctor Commeau. Is she with you now? Can I talk with her?"

"No and nope. She don't know that I know…yet." I can hear footsteps coming up the drive. Jessie's back from the mutt-sitter's. "Sorry, Charlie, gotta go. Talk to ya some more later, kay?"

"Logan, wait!"

What now? "Yeah?"

"I will be brief. In order to secure you legitimate personal documentation, a new identity has been created for you."

"Don't need any fucking documents."

"I beg to differ. If, for any reason, you find yourself confronted by law enforcement officers for example…"

Xavier's playing with fire. "Ya make it sound like it's an inevitability."

"Logan, a brush with the law is a possibility, especially for an individual who has issues with authority and who actively seizes opportunities to drive at breakneck speed…"

Well, I s'pose he's got a point. "Yeah, yeah. Okay," I concede. "Musta cost ya a packet to get my name on all those Fed computers."

"I have a colleague with ties to the federal witness relocation programme."

Wouldn't surprise me if Cue-ball had a line on the Devil himself. "So ya called in a favour, huh?" Waste of fucking time if ya ask me.

"Just a small one."

Bastard's smiling again. I can feel it. "How come ya never said anything before I left?"

"Because I was awaiting confirmation. I received it shortly before you telephoned."

I wait, expecting him to continue with his explanation. It ain't happening. "You gonna spill or do I gotta play animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"I'm in the process of transmitting the information to your cellular telephone, Logan. Please be patient."

Well all ya had to do was say, jerk-off. "If this brings the IRS down on my ass I may hafta start killing people. You first." It'll be a slow and excruciating death if he's got me listed as a fucking hairdresser or lifestyle coach.

"Your levity, as always, is amusing Logan. Do I need to request you delete the information once it has been consigned to memory?"

"I know the drill," I grumble. Ain't too happy about this. Having an identity, even a phoney one, can have repercussions if the wrong people get hold of it. "You done?"

"For now."

"Good!"

Breaking the connection I scan the information Charlie's sent and smile. Yeah, that works for me. Hell, in a different world it could even be me.

I hit the delete button and snap the cell shut as Jessie opens the front door.

-o0o-

"That wasn't so bad was it?"

Grimacing down a mouthful of espresso that's so fucking lousy it belongs in a chemical weapons arsenal, I gripe, "Coulda used more relish and less rabbit food. Some fries woulda been nice."

And more burger too. What is it with these fancy yuppie grazing palaces that charge the goddamn earth for food and then Scrooge on the portions? Jessie dragged me into her favourite bistro for a bite eat and that's what I got; barely a single lousy bite. One more meal like that and I'll be at Moira's tender mercy again. Worse, there ain't no beer.

I watch as Jessie raises the cup to her lips and sips the anaemic froth with evident enjoyment. How in blue blazes can she drink the shit without gagging? Which makes me wonder if the zit-faced twit behind the counter did a number on me for lowering the tone of the joint. Gourmandiserie Patrice? More like fucking Anorexics 'R' Us or maybe La Maison Rip-off. When I drop Jessie off at the hospital I'm gonna go find a bar that serves good beer and decent food. Someplace the patrons don't wrinkle their noses at me like I've rolled in something that fell out of a cow's butt.

"Not the food, Wild Man. Rawcliffe's Great Outdoors Warehouse.

I shrug. As unpleasant experiences go, it wasn't the worst I've suffered. At least all the hard wearing T shirts, flannel shirts, jeans and shit I'll ever need were kept under one roof. But there's gonna be a backlash when Charlie finds he's nearly three thousand dollars poorer.

"Ask me after Charlie gets the bill."

"Logan, Maggie instructed me to ensure you bought several sets of essentials. And having seen your lack of essentials that included just about everything."

"Yeah, but I bet that didn't include supplying my needs for the next ten years," I growl. "Why the hell do I need _two_ new pairs of hiking boots. And the price of that damn weatherproof jacket woulda kept my old camper in gas for friggin' weeks."

The cost, measured in beaten up rednecks, would be well into double figures. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the contemptuous sneers on nearby diner's faces. They got sommat against plain talking? Fuck 'em.

Jessie opens her mouth to reply but whatever it is dies on her lips when her cell phone rings. I smell a brief moment of panic, perhaps anticipating a call from the hospital. Dipping into her purse she pulls the thing out, flips it open and checks the caller ID. She relaxes and smiles.

"It's my friend, Sara. Mind if I take this?"

"Go right ahead."

"You're a sweetheart." After kissing air at me she presses the answer button and all but squeals her delight. "Hey, girlfriend, what's new?"

My close proximity to the tinny voice of Jessie's friend makes it difficult for me to shut it out but I try. Girl-talk holds little interest for me so I let my attention slide, returning the scowls of the lunching lawyers and other overpaid, pretentious assholes. Beneath the table Jessie's foot nudges my left shin. She musta slipped off her shoe coz the touch is soft, tactile. When I shift my gaze back to her she mouths the word _behave_ and then twists her lips into a saucy grin as she wiggle-walks her toes up my shin and briefly massages my knee before moving to my inner thigh.

Naughty girl! Gonna hafta spank.

"If you need to chinwag I can come over after I've visited Dad," Jessie says into the mouthpiece.

I make a face at her. She makes one back and then shows me her profile so I don't distract her. Her foot continues to brush against my thigh but makes no further progress. Shame. Temporarily dismissed I concentrate on the sensation of her not quite feeling me up. Unfortunately the game of footsie comes to an abrupt end. Concern transforms Jessie's smile to a worried line as her friend's voice takes on a frantic edge, begging Jessie to come over as soon as possible. Unable to help myself I listen in.

"You sound upset. What's wrong Sara?"

Probably the usual. Tell her the Crimson Dawn lipstick will _sooo_ go with Dusky Plum polish and then we can all get on with our lives.

"Is this about Sean?"

Ah, shit. It's worse than I thought. Boyfriend trouble.

"No," the tinny voice states. "This is about you."

That grabs my attention.

Jessie's eyebrows crease into a frown. "What about me?"

"Not on the 'phone, Jess. This is too important. I…I need to talk to you. Right now."

"Hold on a sec." Placing her hand over the receiver Jessie whispers, "Logan, do you mind if we make a detour before you drop me off at the hospital?"

Hell I'm up for anything that'll keep her close for a while longer. The brew and eats can wait. "Sure. Whatever ya want, darlin'."

"Thanks," she says, smiling. A man could die happy being the focus of Jessie's smile. "Sara, I'm in Patrice's right now. I'll let Mom know I'm going to be late and come right over. I'll be there in about thirty minutes, okay?"

I can hear her friend gushing relief before she disconnects. Wonder what the crisis is? Jessie taps a new number before raising the phone to her ear once more.

"Where we headed?" I enquire.

"Piney Narrows. Sara's a live-aboard."

"'Kay. You talk to yer mom while I go pull a heist to settle the bill."

-o0o-

"Slow down, Logan. We'll be coming to a T stop soon and you need to hang a left under the bridge. After that, just follow the signs."

"Roger that," I acknowledge, easing my foot off the gas just a tad. My speed's still eating up Eighteen at a fast clip, a change from the congested crawl I endured along Fifty. Wanna get this sideshow over with ASAP. I catch Jessie giving me a pensive, sidelong glance at my response.

"Have you ever considered the possibility of having served in the armed forces?" she enquires.

"'S crossed my mind once or twice. Why?"

Tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind an ear she replies, "There will be records of your service. Might be worth investigating."

I smile. Been there, done that, told One-eye where to stick his anger management suggestion after I pulverised a keyboard.

"Sure, sweetheart. Just as soon as I discover whose army and what name I signed up under."

"Might just be as easy as Googling the name Logan. It's somewhere to start."

"Assuming Logan is my real name."

Conceding the point with a nod she sighs. "There is that." Her gaze fixes on the road ahead, her enthusiasm frustrated.

Outta nowhere I come over all chatty. Must be an effect she has on me. Hope it ain't gonna become a habit. "Ya know, after I escaped my torturers I made no attempt to recover my lost memories, find out who I am. Reckon someone owned the shit they stuck on my bones and mighta fooled themselves into thinking they owned me right along with it. Had me a dog tag and a codename I couldn't risk investigating in case it…"

Half a decade of dumbfuckery comes crashing in on me, forcing a self-deprecating chuckle from my throat. My cage-fighter's handle was Wolverine. Didn't always use it, at least not at first, but increasingly in the last five years I used my codename in the cage. What the hell was I thinking?

"Want to share the joke?"

"I'm the fucking joke," I admit. "Biggest jackass of all time."

"I have a hard time believing that." Jessie's loyalty is touching. And misplaced.

"The information had to be flagged, would bring the monsters who fucked me over crawling up my ass if I ran a trace. Then Stryker happened and I was back on the radar so tagging wasn't a problem anymore." 'Sides, darlin', there're more solid leads waiting to be found in Stryker's files so Googling's for shit.

"Well at least Stryker gives you a starting point," she adds, her mood shifting to upbeat once more.

I reply with a non-committal shrug. "Whatever he knew died with him." Don't want her going there. Can't abide decent company on the dark road I'm heading down.

"Oh, right." She falls silent.

Taking her hand in mine I squeeze gently. "Hey, don't you stop getting ideas now. I need all the help I can get, kay?"

Squeezing back she adds, "You know I'll do whatever I can to help."

Raising her hand to my lips I kiss it and mutter, "Thanks."

Caressing my face with her newly kissed hand she replies, "Anytime, Wild Man."

Wild Man. Is that what I am to her? A step up from animal I suppose. I crack my face into a smile. "Mind if I play with the power windows? Need to chase the road funk from my lungs."

"Sure."

The section of midday Route Fifty we've just converted into mileage ain't never gonna top my list of see it before ya die experiences. Fucking traffic moves like a slug immersed in its own sulphide and benzene fumes. Breathing got easier as the traffic crawled over Bay Bridge, the wind scouring most of the pollutants away, but they returned in force after hitting the Kent Island shore. Even with the windows up and the AC maxed on recycle, the concentrated exhaust fumes leaching into the cab ate into my sinuses like corrosive acid. Healing factor deals with the irritation but it ain't no cure for the filthy taste and smell. Off Fifty the traffic's negligible and there's a fair breeze blowing so I key the window toggle and allow the fresh sea air to scour the cabin. Sucking in the slightly earthy smell of salt marsh, growing things and ocean brings relief.

Coming up fast on the junction I feather the brakes. "'Kay, here we go," I say, turning the Jeep into Piney Narrows Road.

"Not far now," Jessie announces. "Look out for the entrance to Queen Anne's Condo Marina and turn in there."

"Right."

Piney Narrows road is an eclectic mixture of residences, bars, restaurants, marinas, boatyards and micro-malls. Seems ya can buy anything from a stick of gum through to a megabucks motor yacht. A few minutes drive brings us to a large board, almost a billboard, painted an eye-catching brilliant white with large blue and red letters proclaiming that what I'm looking for's next right.

"We're here," Jessie announces.

No shit! I mean, ya'd hafta be blind to miss a sign that fucking obvious don'tcha? I turn into the entrance and the air fills with the sound of loose gravel crunching under the Jeep's tyres. A more discreet sign directs me to the visitors car park. Pulling up in an empty bay I cut the engine. Beer! I smell its mouth-watering tang before I notice the clubhouse come store advertising the presence of a bar. Just the thing I need to wash away the road taint.

"Look, darlin'. I don't wanna butt in on you and yer friend's urgent chat. If ya like, I'll wait here until yer done."

Twisting in her seat Jessie leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. "Nuh uh, hunk. Sara's my oldest friend and she'd never forgive me if I didn't introduce you. The beer here isn't anything to write home about but if you're prepared to wait a little while longer there's a couple of bars back in town who's beer is worthy of your single-minded appreciation."

Sounds like a plan. "How about food? Menu don't matter so long as they got plates bigger than a dime."

"Your appetite is insatiable."

"You should know, darlin'," I grin, raising a suggestive eyebrow. This gets me a playful punch in the shoulder.

"Ow!" she squeaks. Guess her punch was a bit too playful.

"If the booze's as good as ya say it is I'll play along. But sweetheart, the first mention of malls, makeup or fashion tips and I'm outta there." Mean it too. No way am I gonna suffer shit like that while there's a cold one, even if it is inferior, going begging. Not even for Jessie.

"Won't happen, lover," she assures me with a sexy grin. "Sara and I were both tomboys and never had much time for all that frothy girly stuff. She doesn't do gossip either. If she has something important she needs to share I can guarantee it won't involve fashion tips and sale bargains, okay."

"Fair enough." A mercenary thought creeps into my head. If she's Jessie's best friend then maybe she has beer. Heh. Worth a try.

"This shouldn't take long. Sara knows I'm visiting Dad shortly."

Yeah, whatever, sweetheart. Let's just get this done shall we? "So long as she don't mind a stranger butting in."

Jessie's sparkling laughter fills the cab. "You never quit do you?"

"Quitting's for losers."

Her gentle laughter is carried away by the breeze as she exits the jeep.

Despite the cooling effect of the wind it's a warm day and I'm beginning to work up a minor sweat. Shrugging off the leather jacket I stow it in the cargo hold away from thieving eyes. Don't look like the type of neighbourhood that suffers from an excess of car crime but looks can be deceiving. Hearing the passenger door slam shut I trigger the remote locking system. Jessie strolls away from the Jeep and towards the gate leading to the slips. Leaving behind the enticing smell of the bar I follow, instantly mesmerised by the way her buns wiggle as she walks. The girl's got moves that raises a guy's blood pressure in all the right places. Much as I hate the idea, a change the scenery is in order.

There are maybe a score of people shore side doing people things; unloading shopping from cars, disposing of trash, chatting to friends. I can hear muffled voices in the bar; ordering, conversing, playing pool. Lucky bastards. Others are aboard their boats working or relaxing. Marina's quite a size, gotta be upwards of two hundred boats, big and small, moored right now and there's still a good number of slips that are empty. Looks like someone's coming back to port right now. There's a boat in the lock and a guy busy winching the inner gates open.

"Lotta bucks and real estate bobbing around on the water," I observe. People really live aboard these things full time?"

"Some of them do, including Sara. And it saves the trouble of selling up and moving," Jessie chuckles. "You get sick of the scenery all you have to do is up anchor and sail into the sunset."

I can relate to that but I'll take wheels over sail any day. Jessie walks briskly past a number of slips, some empty, most not. There's a mixture of yachts and motor boats of various sizes, many in excess of ten metres long. A few people wave and call, "Hi!" as we walk past. Jessie returns the greetings and continues along the dock while I follow close behind, ignoring the curious glances and nodding if someone actually bothers to acknowledge me.

We're almost at the end of the dock when Jessie halts, announcing, "This is it."

The "it" she's referring to is a fair sized sucker constructed of white fibreglass and well in excess of forty feet. Not new but in immaculate condition with the metal trim polished to within an inch of it's life. The flybridge towers above me, empty, it's white canopy pristine and angular against the blue sky. The name Arcturus, in bold black letters, decorates the stern beneath a small stars and stripes that's snapping in the breeze. Jessie climbs the boarding ladder and steps onto the deck. She negotiates two colourfully striped sun-loungers before turning and waiting for me. As I follow her it strikes me that a condo marina is nothing more than a floating trailer park. Probably get lynched if I point this out to the residents though.

Beneath my feet the boat rocks gently as my metal enhanced weight alters it's displacement. Quickly adjusting to the rolling motion, I pick my way across the deck to where Jessie's waiting. Underlying her scent are two others. One is all-pervading; female; its most recent application at least an hour stale. Jessie's friend. There's another one, much fainter and also about an hour old. This one's male and beneath his aftershave and personal scent is a subtle undertone of worsted wool. There's a fading hot spot of female anger and male agitation suggesting an argument took place right where we're standing. Inside there are two heartbeats, both trip-hammering. Anticipation of another fight? Testing the air, I find no suggestion of threat.

"Yer friend ain't alone. There's a guy in there with her."

"That's probably Sean, Sara's fiancé,"

"He a Navy guy?"

"No, why?"

Then it ain't him. Got my suspicions though. "Just wondering," I reply.

The blinds on the salon door and windows are closed. Obvious reason is to prevent the direct sunlight penetrating the cabin. Obscured windows also hide stuff. A tiny worm of paranoia burrows into my brain. Don't hurt to listen to it. Absence of threat stink don't negate the possibility of trouble.

"Ahoy the boat," Jessie calls as she reaches for the handle to slide the salon door aside. "Prepare to repel boarders!"

"The door's open, Jess," a mellow female voice calls out. Mellow or not, there's no disguising the apprehension in the tone.

I cock my head as if silently questioning the childish greeting. In reality my senses are focused on the unseen occupants. Mistaking my quizzical expression Jessie bursts into an explanation.

"When we were kids, Sara and I used to patrol the Spanish Main looking for pirates. In our imagination anyway." Her chuckle, and the far away look in her baby blues, is almost wistful. Borne three hundred years ago I figure Captain Jessie would've kicked major pirate ass.

"Sounds great." My response is non-committal. Can't share her sentiment. Thanks to Stryker I don't have any fucking childhood memories left. 'Sides, my mind's focused on a muted exchange elsewhere.

As Jessie reminisces I hear the unseen Sara whisper, "I told you she'd come."

"But she hasn't come alone," a male voice answers back.

"Maybe Phil's with her?"

The man let's out a soft groan. "Oh, God, that's all I need."

Yer gonna get more'n yer bargained for, bub, if you're who I think ya are.

I can hear footsteps crossing the salon and, as Jessie hauls the door aside, the sun illuminates a slight figure crowned by shoulder length sandy red hair. The tan revealed by her brick red shorts and pale yellow T shirt is natural, not applied A pair of amber eyes stare out from a deeply freckled face. Those eyes are troubled and open wide when they come to rest on me. Pink lips part in surprise.

"You didn't say you were bringing someone." Though she don't vocalise it, her body language hollers, _oh, shit!_ as mortification paints her scent sour.

So no beer then.

"Sara, this is Logan, the guy I told you about. Logan this is…"

Jessie freezes; she bristles; she _growls_. I can hear her vocal chords vibrate as air catches in her throat. The tall figure silhouetted against the blinds at the far end of the salon stands stock still; hands in pockets. Apprehension cloaks him and a surge of adrenalin sends his heart rate spiralling. His lips move.

"Hello, Jess."

Outwardly Jessie's icy calm. Stone killer calm. It's a lie. My nose tells me incandescent don't even come close to describing her internal meltdown. A series of emotive chemicals erupts from her as she goes from friendly to furious in a microsecond. Glaring hot daggers at her friend she snarls out, "What the hell is this?"

Sara seems to whither under Jessie's glare and looks like she's rather be somewhere else. Can't say I blame her. There are days when I hate being right. This ain't one of 'em but it's bubbling under. Mister Clean-cut's tall, well groomed, maybe thirtyish. His bearing, his demeanour, even his fucking haircut, reeks of military. Anger twists his lips into a grimace as his eyes meet mine. His nostrils flare, his chin juts and his features settle into an expression ya could crack walnuts on. I return the sentiment, my fuck you sneer an explicit challenge. Ain't taking any shit from you, bub, so whatever yer game plan is, think again.

Eyes narrowed to slits, cheeks burning crimson with emotion, hands balled tightly into fists, Jessie stalks past her friend and into the centre of the salon. "What the fuck are you doing here, David?" She spits out his name like it's a bad taste.

Desperate to defuse the volatile situation Sara steps between Jessie and Sailor-boy. Jessie's high voltage stare threatens to reduce him to slag but he bears the brunt of her visual assault like a veteran. There's loathing and jealousy building up inside him like an infection. There's regret too, wrapped around a deep sense of loss. Too bad. That's what fucking up stupendously gets ya. Believe me, I know. Ain't all he's suffering from though. Beneath his surface emotions is a hardcore of panic; small but intense. He manifests it as a deep-seated agitation that's churning his guts into water. He don't smell like a guy seeking reconciliation, he smells like a guy running blindfolded through a minefield.

Breaking the tense silence Sara touches Jessie's arm and sighs, "Jess, I'm so sorry about this but I think …"

Shrugging from Sara's touch Jessie cuts her off, her voice bitter with disappointment. "I trusted you, Sara. I thought you were my best friend."

"I am! And I wouldn't have broken my promise without a damn good reason. What David has to say you need to hear." Glacial silence. "Please, Jess. If what he's told me is true it has serious implications for you."

Injured by Jessie's silent hostility Sara's words die on her lips as she stares over her shoulder at the source of her friend's animosity. "And if it turns out he _is_ using me to get to you, then I'll be the one holding him down while you kick the living crap out of him."

The pleading in Sara's tawny eyes, her fraught gestures, are painfully honest. Wonder what prompted her to risk a lifelong friendship? Nothing minor I figure. As the drama continues to unfold I'm torn between the need to drag Jessie's perfect ass the hell outta here and learning the reason Sailor-boy is risking dismemberment by pissing her off. The guy's on edge, almost frantic and I figure this ain't because of me. Curiosity piqued, I'm gonna let this scene play out.

Jessie stares at her friend, her tense posture radiating displeasure. Reckon she's gonna tell Sara to go to hell and by the expression on Sara's face, she thinks so too. Suddenly, compassion and a modicum of shame kicks in, dissipating some of Jessie's raw emotion. Atta girl!

"It's okay, Sara. This isn't your fault. David's obviously manipulated you into an impossible position. It's what he does best…" She breaks off as she looks at her ex. Can't see her expression but there ain't no mistaking the odour of her contempt.

Some of Sara's anxiety melts away as relief kicks in. She turns, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jessie, united as they regard the isolated figure before them. He stares back at them, unblinking, aware he has just lost his ally.

"So talk already." Jessicalicious goes straight for the jugular. No preliminaries. No more histrionics.

Struggling to maintain his composure, Sailor-boy shifts his feet before straightening his shoulders. His dark grey eyes fix on me, his stare calculating and resentful. "Jess, what I have to tell you is confidential. Please ask your…friend…to leave."

Sure I'll leave. Right after I step over your cooling corpse, bub.

The disdain with which he enunciates the word friend fuels Jessie's anger. "Don't be coy, David. Logan already knows what you did to me." This girl knows how to deliver icy criticism with the precision of a knife to the heart.

This whips Sailor-boy into a sweeping hand gesture that takes us all in. "No he doesn't. And neither do you."

Unimpressed, Jessie ups her defiance a notch. "I'm not in the mood to play stupid games. Either Logan stays or we both walk. What's it going to be?"

For long seconds he stares at her, his hooded grey eyes imploring her to reconsider. He's wasting his time. Unmoved, Jessie stands her ground. "Fine," he concedes, resigning himself to doing it her way. "Jess, I believe your life is in danger."

The sharp snort issuing from Jessie is worthy of a rampaging buffalo. "That's lame even by your standards."

Wounded by her cynicism Sailor-boy gains a coupla inches in height as his spine stiffens like someone just shoved a cattle-prod up his ass. It's a body language I've seen before. Even his smart-casual dark slacks and sweater are eerily familiar. Another One-eye clone. What the hell is this town, a fucking breeding colony? One thing's in his favour though. Lame or not, the guy ain't giving off a stink of deception. His concern is genuine. He really does fear for her life. That means he gets my undivided attention.

"How's her life in danger?" I demand.

He ignores me, focuses on Jessie.

"I didn't think you would move on so quickly. I know I hurt you but even so…"

"You dropped me like a sack of shit, David. What did you think I'd do? Go home and pine away like a tragic Bronte heroine?"

"It wasn't like that…"

"We don't have time for this shit," I growl. The conversation needs steering back on track damn fast. "You lob a frag grenade and then start whining? What's more important, your pride or her life? Get with the program, Ahab."

Flashing me a malevolent glare, he nevertheless concedes the point. "You're right."

Before he can utter another word Jessie turns on me with an incredulous, "You believe him?"

"He believes it," I reply. "Let 'im say his piece."

"Logan's right," Sara adds. "You need to hear this."

"Looks like you've found yourself two unlikely allies, David," Jessie says as she flashes Sara and me a doubtful look. "So tell me why you think I'm in danger?"

Resting his left hand on his hip, he nervously finger-combs his hair with the other. "Christ, where to start?"

"How about with the truth?" Jessie's on him like a Pit Bull on a swinging tyre. She ain't gonna let up none.

"Yeah. I owe you that much." Unable to meet her eyes he takes a deep breath and begins. "A couple of days after Migraine Monday, I attended a briefing with my commanding officer and a full bird Marine colonel called Schaeffer. Apparently he'd been sent by the Department of Defence."

What the fuck's Migraine Monday? Ah, shit! Only one thing it could be, moron. Stryker's attempt at global genocide hit like a jackhammer to my head. It was the day Jeanie died. She deserves a better epitaph than Migraine fucking Monday though.

"Schaeffer wanted to talk about you. How long I'd known you, what sort of person you are Wanted to know about the people you liked mixing with. To be honest, I found his questions intrusive. It was a similar grilling given to personnel requesting marriage to a foreign national."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you were the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

Jessie's silence is so stony ya could pave the sidewalk with it.

Disheartened Sailor-boy continues. "Then he asked if you were a mutant rights activist, wanted to know if you were affiliated to any particular mutant rights organisation or if you ever criticised the government for the way it handles mutant affairs. I told him you supported mutant rights, as do I, but you were not an activist, you didn't attend rallies and you didn't have an extreme political opinion. At first he seemed to accept that and chatted about our forthcoming engagement. Then, out of the blue, he asked me if I thought you were a true patriot."

"Why?" Jessie asked, clearly puzzled. "I've fought for my country. Didn't my record speak for itself?"

"Apparently not. When I said yes, I did believe you were true blue, he told me you had been tagged as a person of interest by Homeland Security. It seems your name cropped up in a surveillance report."

"Tagged? What the hell for?"

Guilt fountains off him as he admits, "Links to a mutant terrorist cell."

"WHAT?" Outraged innocence explodes from Jessie's every pore, enveloping her in a bitter shroud of scent. No faking a smell like that. Seconds crawl by as she deals with the shock of Sailor-boy's words. Finally she finds her voice again, borne on an upsurge of seething hostility.

"And you believed this bullshit?"

"No! At least not at first." Shame and a fresh release of guilt add to the volatile mixture of emotions assaulting my senses. What the fuck did this guy do to her? "Not until I saw the surveillance footage of you conspiring with the terrorists responsible for the Migraine Monday attack."

What the fuck? That was Stryker, a fucking US colonel, not terrorists. They gonna try and pin everything that's evil in the world on mutants? Why the hell not simply blame us for the Original Sin and have done with it?

Sweat forms a faint sheen on Sailor-boy's forehead and he finger-combs his hair again, his movements nervous and agitated. No longer able to bear Jessie's withering stare he begins to pace and then stops. She watches him silently, her posture tense as a leopard stalking its prey. "God, Jess, the stuff on that disk made you look and sound like a mass murderer. Have you any idea what that did to me?"

"Yeah, it turned you into a spineless, self-serving creep."

Jessie's bitterness, though understandable, ain't helping things along so I'm gonna.

"What changed yer mind, bub?"

"I'm getting to that," he snaps, resenting my intrusion. "Just over three hours ago I was contacted by Lex Catchpole, an old friend of my father."

The breath hitches in Jessie throat. "Catchpole? _Admiral_ Catchpole?"

"Yes. He holds a brief to investigate discrimination against mutants in Navy service. His mandate includes the scrutiny of high ranking officers."

"Bet that makes him popular," I observe.

Ignoring my comment, Sailor-boy continues, "According to the admiral, while Senator Kelly distracted the media and the nation with his demand for a Mutant Registration Act a second, equally insidious directive was proposed. As mutant inspired terrorism and crime escalates on US soil there are people who want to see everyone possessing the X gene, whether mutant or not, disbarred from military service. The potential for subversion, they argue, is too great a threat to national security. This sentiment, although extremely controversial, is echoed in several echelons including The Senate, Congress, the Pentagon, the White House, Joint Chiefs, Department of Defence, United Combat Command, Homeland Security, NSA, CIA, FBI, you name it. Pressure to violate the Fourteenth Amendment in order to curb what is described as a plausible national threat has become the vogue."

"But that's fascism!" Sara exclaims, visibly appalled.

"Yes it is," Sailor-boy agrees, his sepulchral mood forming a frown, altering the contours of his face. "And in the wake of Migraine Monday the campaign to control the so called mutant problem has gained fresh momentum."

"The Legislature caves in and then what?" Jessie chips in, her voice dripping with bitterness. "Servicemen and women blackballed for marrying someone disenfranchised? Dishonourable discharge for fraternisation? Fort Leavenworth for being a mutie sympathiser?"

Sara, her voice quavering with anger, adds to Jessie's outburst with one of her own. "I don't understand why this is happening. Like ordinary people, most mutants are peaceful and law abiding. Why are they vilified when their gifts should be accepted as a precious natural resource? I mean, look at how Phillip helps people."

That's the wrong thing to say in more ways'n I got fingers and toes. I got first hand experience of how this particular natural resource gets exploited.

"Izzat whatcha think, lady? That mutants are a commodity? Lemme show ya what thoughts like that get ya. They get ya shit like this." I unsheathe the claws, extruding them slowly so that she's under no illusions they hurt like fuck.

She watches with the bug-eyed intensity of a mouse hypnotised by a snake, her mouth agape from shock. "I'm sorry. I…I didn't mean…" she stammers as she takes a step back.

"No one ever does, darlin', but people get fucked over just the same."

"You're a mutant?" This from the deck-swab.

"Yeah. I was so precious to them they ripped my mind apart, covered my bones in metal, turned me into a walking weapon and programmed me to hunt down my own kind. Including _kids._" Point made I let the claws slide from view.

"Oh, my God!" Sara again.

"Still think we're a precious resource?"

Sara shakes her head.

Seizing the initiative once more Sailor-boy continues, "McKenna takes his presidential oath very seriously, vigorously opposing any law designed to tear down the Fourteenth Amendment. Before whoever it was gave the world one big fucking headache, he appointed Catchpole and like-minded high rankers from other services, to be his watchdogs. The voices of discrimination ceased their overt yammering, fearful of being investigated too closely. Then came Migraine Monday and suddenly the protests started up once more. I guess Dad must have told Catchpole about Jess. Catchpole did a little digging around and discovered the so called evidence didn't add up."

"What about my doppelganger in the surveillance tapes? The evidence you found irresistibly persuasive? How did he explain that?"

That's the easiest bit, honey. "Probably a shape-shifter," I explain, "A mutant with powers to impersonate anyone or anything." Trouble is, this theory raises more questions than it answers.

Teeth bared, Sailor-boy rounds on me. "How the hell did you know that?"

Seizing his accusation I throw it right back in his face. "Coz I've met one." Is Mystique involved in this? Why would she wanna help these motherfuckers against her own kind? Answer is, she wouldn't so we're dealing with an unknown individual. "What convinced yer admiral buddy?"

"One of Catchpole's informants handed him a batch of outtakes obviously shot at the same time as the surveillance tapes. The most significant outtake showed the metamorph changing into you, Jess."

Anger forgotten, all Jessie can say is, "For God's sake, why?"

"You see the tapes for yourself?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Where's this evidence now?" Not sure clearing Jessie's name is gonna be good for me but I ain't gonna stand in the way.

"The originals are still in the Admiral's possession. He gave me copies, for insurance he said. I have them safe."

"This is a fucking nightmare!" Jessie's voice is tinged with hysteria now. "Why me? Why go to all this trouble to frame me and then let me walk away?"

Scrubbing his face with his hands Sailor-boy shakes his head. "That's the part I don't understand. The prima facie evidence was clear-cut. You should have been arrested and charged. The media feeding frenzy had the potential to be bigger than OJ Simpson but it didn't happen.

"The admiral believes this started out as a measure to discredit genetically undesirable personnel. You were, in all probability, chosen as their poster child because you were latent, your brother is a mutant, you were stateside and conveniently situated. Why the plan found itself derailed is a mystery. Best guess is a high altitude third party got wind of your supposed treason and pulled rank. It's possible you were quietly removed, either to prevent a witch hunt or, if your guilt was accepted, used as bait to catch your fellow conspirators. Neither explanation makes sense."

No it don't make sense. You discover a traitor you use 'em to your advantage, feed 'em disinformation, pass it along as easily as herpes. But ya don't let 'em walk. Ya keep 'em on a short leash. Introduce too many variables and things go tits up faster than Dolly Parton in a Jacuzzi. This bullshit has all the hallmarks of a smoke and mirrors operation. Best way to hide a stinking turd is bury it in shit.

"Did my temporary re-assignment come through before or after Schaeffer's visit?"

Jessie's non sequitur takes Sailor-boy by surprise. Not me though. I've seen how good she is at seizing a critical tangent and poking it with a stick.

"Jess, raking all this up isn't helping anyone…"

"The hell it isn't. DID MY RE-ASSIGNMENT GET POSTED BEFORE OR AFTER SCHAFFER'S VISIT?"

Sailor-boy flinches as Jessie's shouted question reverberates off the salon walls. "Afterwards. After his second visit the following day. Someone, he didn't name names, wanted you quietly discredited and out of the Navy."

A second visit? Now that's mighty interesting. Tells me whoever used this Schaffer asshole as a hatchet-man got his arm twisted by a bigger fish with a different agenda. Is it coincidence that Jessie got herself linked to Stryker's little death party and then hooked up with one of the Alkali Lake survivors? My paranoia don't believe in coincidences, especially one ya can drive a convoy of Abrams tanks through, but I wanna find out for sure. Shouldn't be too difficult to work my way up the food chain to find the arm-twister.

The stink of Jessie's rage fills the confined space and becomes oppressive. Spewing words like bullets she yells, "It was you. You did this. You were the one who got my ass kicked out! That's why we received the joint posting aboard the McKinney. So you could set me up. You're no better than the bastards who tried to frame me as a terrorist. "

Sailor-boy pales and actually retreats when Jessie steps towards him. "Believe me, Jess. I…I didn't have a choice."

"That's it? You're pleading the fucking Nuremburg defence? You were just following orders? You couldn't find the courage to tell the bastard to go to hell?" She's up close and personal now and I reckon it's touch and go as to whether or not she's gonna knock the shithead on his self-righteous ass.

"Jess, please." Reaching out as if to grip her shoulders, perhaps to restrain her, he thinks again. Instead he turns away, no longer able to meet her accusing glare.

"Tell me, David. When we were indulging ourselves in illicit fraternisation aboard ship, were you making love to the woman you wanted to spend the rest of your life with or fucking a terrorist for Uncle Sam?"

Blood suffuses his face, part from anger and part from abject shame. His torment is plain to see. Faced with a choice of betraying his future or his country he did his duty as a serving officer. Idiot shoulda known the government would fuck him over. "Jess, it wasn't like that!"

"You fucking snake in the grass! I can't believe I loved you enough to want to marry you."

"Jessie, can ya give it a rest for a moment, sweetheart?" This earns me a burn in hell glare but her anger has taken the conversation in the wrong direction. "Ya can kick his ass later but there are issues that need answers, kay?"

Defiance burning brightly within her, it takes a few heartbeats to think about it before throwing her hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. "Yeah, whatever."

To Sailor-boy I point out an omission. "Nothing you've said so far indicates a direct threat to Jessie's life. Care to expand on that?"

With Jessie's awkward questions diverted he sighs and continues. "Within hours of the informant passing along the footage to Catchpole's man he became a hit and run statistic. Quite a coincidence don't you think?"

Jessie's rejoinder is anger motivated. "My life is in danger because a guy got run over in the street?"

Don't be dim, darlin'. It don't become ya. "So, who else became a statistic?"

I can smell Sailor-boy's surprise but it doesn't show on his face. "Catchpole's man turned up dead last night. Apparent suicide. He was found slumped over a table, his brains spattered across a pile of hardcore child porn DVDs. "

This is bad. Standard procedure to discredit and silence an inconvenient witness is to kill him or destroy his integrity. Looks like this is a belt and suspenders job. People find it difficult to see beyond their own revulsion. After all, a dead paedophile's a good start ain't it? Don't matter the guy was probably innocent of the crime and fighting for their right to judge harshly.

Hold the fuck up! How the hell do I know about spook's handbook crap like this? Guess Charlie was on the button about my involuntary access to operational knowledge theory after all. Makes me wonder if I really wanna find out what and who I was before I became me.

"I take it your admiral buddy don't think the gunshot wound was self inflicted."

"No." Short and sweet. Sailor-boy don't think it's suicide either.

"He's gotta know these bastards will be coming after him." Coz there's no way in hell they blew that guy's brains out without breaking him first. That is, of course, assuming this story ain't a crock of shit from beginning to end. Seems like the bogus footage is real enough though.

"The admiral's an ex Navy SEAL. He can handle himself."

"Is that a fact! For all you know he could be dead already making you their follow up damage limitation project."

"I wasn't followed." Voice raised he stares me right in the eyes, challenging me.

"Sure ya weren't. If what yer saying is true, seems these fuckers are killing to protect whatever they've primed Jessie for. It's possible yer boss passed you the intel before they found him. I wouldn't bet yer life on it though. They might believe you've compromised Jessie and made her expendable. By coming here you've risked putting two fresh lives on the line, Jessie's and Sara's. Way to go, Ahab!"

"I took precautions. So did the admiral."

"Yeah, well while you and him were practising safe sex maybe the bad guys took time off to do lunch. Or they could have 'scopes trained on the boat right now just waiting to execute a fuck-over none of ya will come back from."

"I'm telling you, I wasn't followed!"

Shout it out louder, idiot. The stiffs in Arlington cemetery didn't hear ya.

"You willing to bet their lives on that?" I jerk my thumb at the two women.

His complexion pales as my point sinks in.

"No."

Turning away from him I instruct, "Jessie, I'm going to take a look outside. Help yer friend pack a few essentials, just something she can sling over her shoulder. Best she don't stay here."

"Sara doesn't need me to do that. I'm coming with you to watch your back."

Shoulda expected that. "With what? An attitude and a finger gun?"

My turn for her full thickness burns stare. "Hey, believe it or not we receive training for this sort of thing in the Navy. A second pair of eyes is always good."

"That only works if yer head's still attached to yer shoulders. You are gonna keep yours down until I give the word." As she opens her mouth to protest I put a finger to her lips. "This ain't up for debate, darlin'. I need to know yer safe, kay?" If there's anyone out there I need to concentrate on dealing with 'em, not worrying about you.

She don't like it. Blue eyes smoulder defiantly. Brushing her cheek with my knuckles gets me a frown but she backs down.

"Whatever," she murmurs.

Good girl.

Turning to Sailor-boy I ask, "You carrying?" I can smell gun oil but can't see a telltale bulge anywhere on him.

"Yes."

Reaching for a jacket draped over the back of a chair he pulls what looks like an AirLite .357 magnum from a pocket. After removing the safety, the gun makes a satisfying click as he chambers a round. Ain't service issue but it makes up in stopping power what it lacks in size.

"Do you really think our lives are in danger?" Sara's voice, silent during the heated argument, is shrill. Galloping heartbeat and a sudden cold sweat tells me she might do something stupid and hysterical if the situation goes to hell.

"Just a precaution to assume they are, sweet thing." Keep her occupied. "Go get yer gear, okay? Just enough for an overnighter."

"I…" Sara begins. Her gaze darts nervously between Jessie, Sailor-boy and me. Licking lips gone dry with fear she turns and heads for the hatch at the bow end of the salon.

"Sara." Jessie's voice is low and soft; soothing. "C'mon, I'll give you a hand. Maybe it's best you come with Logan and me. Until we know it's safe."

"Uh, yeah."

The two disappear below while Sailor-boy and I wait, unspeaking, our tense silence broken only by the noise of Jessie helping Sara to gather a few belongings. They reappear in short order, a carry-all slung over Sara's shoulder and a small pair of binoculars clutched in Jessie's hand.

"I thought these might help," Sara explains.

"Sure they will," I reply. She's shit scared but it ain't paralysed her mind. Guess the girl's made of sterner stuff than I thought.

Jessie gives her girlfriend a reassuring hug. "Thanks, girl."

"So how do we do this?" Sailor-boy demands. It's killing him to ask but he's man enough to admit he needs my help.

"If anyone's out there I'll know it from the get go."

"How in blue blazes will you know that?"

Why is it people can believe mutants capable of committing atrocities without so much as blinking yet when it comes down to a practical application of powers they gotta question ability?

"Because, Ahab, I'm a fucking mutant." Which is all the explanation yer getting, asshole. "But I need to go look-see so I'm gonna walk out that door and onto the dock. I sense any interested parties you'll see me head along the dock towards the main building. All they'll see is me enjoying a quiet smoke as I stroll to the bar. Shortly after that they'll lose interest. If things go south it's your responsibility to get Jessie and Sara out. When I'm satisfied the coast's clear I'll give the signal."

The sour expression on Sailor-boy's face means trouble. "That's your plan? Set yourself up as a target and hope you don't get blown away? Only a lunatic would come up with a strategy like that."

"Point in my favour. If what you've told us ain't a pile of crap they're gonna be here for you, not me. With luck I'm an unknown quantity, an incidental fly in their ointment, which means if I'm a target I ain't the primary one so they ain't gonna shoot me and alert you." I deliver this bullshit with a straight face. No one's going out that door 'cept me. "You got a better idea let's hear it, bub."

"Yeah, I'll take point and you stay with the women."

Indignant, Jessie snaps out, "David, just shut the fuck up. Logan knows what he's doing."

"I doubt that. He isn't even armed for Christ's sake."

Unleashing both sets of claws and making sure he gets a long, hard look at 'em I snarl, "What d'ya call these? Crochet hooks?"

Unfazed he stands his ground and I feel an urge to carve the supercilious expression right off his Navy face. "Very handy for close quarters combat but what if there's a sniper out there? What fucking use are those butcher's knives if you end up with a bullet in your skull? Your little suicide mission is going to get us all killed. We can't be sure there is anyone waiting for us but if there is it will take more than your stupid plan to get us home free. There are two people on this boat capable of maybe pulling this off and you are not one of them. I'll go."

"Bub, turning me into a walking weapon means I can't get offed as easily as you think." Sheathing the claws I tap my skull with a finger. "Osseo-bonded adamantium. An almost indestructible steel alloy impervious to bullets. Empty an entire clip at it, point-blank, and it won't even leave a scratch. My entire skeleton is covered in the shit. I also have a healing factor ya wouldn't believe. Shoot me in the head and all I get is a headache and mightily pissed off. Shoot you in the head and being pissed off'll be the least of your worries. Now put your dick away, stand the fuck down and let me do what I'm best at." Whatever the hell that is…

Sara steps in, her words catching in her throat. "Why go ashore at all? Why can't we just slip the mooring ropes and head out to sea?"

Smart idea if ya wanna die quickly. I'm surprised that Sara, being a live-aboard, ain't worked it out for herself.

"Because the lock gates are closed which means it ain't high tide. While we're waiting for the water levels to equalise, any problem we got waiting dockside would be all over us like flies on a turd. We'd literally be sitting ducks."

"Oh!" Chagrined, she blushes. "I'm sorry, I must have lost track of time." Fidgeting with the shoulder strap of her bag she continues, "But what about you? If there really is someone watching won't they suspect something if you go outside?"

"Sweetheart, all they'll see is me puffing on a stogie while heading for the bar. If they're out there I'll know it and I'll deal with the fuckers. No point risking your lives if I can take them down without any fuss. Believe me, they'll never see it coming."

"You're going to kill them?"

"That's up to them." They show me deadly force they'll get it back and then some. If the bastards are a black ops goon squad like Stryker's band of heroes I'll introduce 'em to a kill skill they won't ever fucking come back from.

"You said yourself there might be no one there."

Don't have time for this. "It won't hurt to make sure. 'Sides, you really want me coming back on board and stinking up your boat with cigar smoke?"

That raises a brief smile.

"Anyone else wanna ante up their two cents worth?" Grim but silent faces all around me. "No? Then I'm outta here. Jessie, gimme yer cell will ya? Left mine in the Jeep"

After dipping into her purse she hands me her 'phone. "Sara's number is three on speed dial."

Taking it from her I let my hand linger upon hers. "Gotcha. Thanks darlin'." Turning to Sara I suggest, "Best turn yer ring tone off, huh? Just in case."

Sailor-boy steps forward. "I still think this is a lunatic plan. I can't believe I'm condoning this."

Shoving Jessie's phone into my jeans pocket I just grunt. Don't give a shit what he believes.

"Logan, be careful," Jessie murmurs as she folds herself into my arms and kisses my cheek.

"Careful's my middle name." She smiles at the absurdity and I brush her lips with mine, tasting her sweetness, inhaling her essence. A guy needs to know what he's fighting for. Sailor-boy looks away, a fresh scowl twisting his lips, his sudden spike of jealousy acrid in my nostrils.

"I'll be watching and waiting," she murmurs in my ear.

"And that's all yer gonna do. Don't come over all gung-ho and make me explain to yer folks how ya got yerself hurt or worse, capiche? You," I sweep the cabin with my gaze, "all of you stay outta sight 'til I tell ya otherwise or it becomes obvious I ain't coming back." I step away from Jessie and head for the door.

"Good luck," Sara says, her entire body quivering with dread.

"Thanks."

Outside I pick my way across the deck and jump down onto the dock. Keeping my movements laid-back I haul out a stogie, wedge it between my teeth and then pat my pockets as if looking for a light, all the while testing the air, watching for furtive movements and listening for incongruous sounds. After lighting the cigar and sucking the aromatic smoke deep into my lungs, I exhale and begin a leisurely walk along the dock towards the gate.

An itch develops between my shoulder blades. It ain't no ordinary irritation and it ain't down to sweat neither. The discomfort sets my nerves afire as the prickling travels up my spine, raising hairs en route as my body reacts to an indeterminate threat response. My sixth sense is making itself felt; a worm boring into my head, gnawing away at my paranoia and chanting a mantra. _Someone's watching. Yer being watched. _

Took precautions did he? Someone oughta tell Ahab that when ya wanna prevent a certain kinda nasty surprise ya chose an Armalite over a Featherlite to give the creeps on yer tail the best fucking they've ever had in their lives.

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	5. Spearhead

**Chapter 5: Spearhead**

The bastard's are out there. Can't see 'em, can't hear 'em, can't smell 'em but they're fucking out there. The icy tingle crawling up my spine and raising my hackles tells me so and the old Logan sixth sense ain't never let me down. Taking a deep drag on my stogie I set a leisurely pace along the dock. Don't wanna make quick progress coz I need time to scope out the terrain.

Never been able to quantify exactly what kinda bug crawls up my ass at times like this. It's involuntary and a complete mothering mystery but its effectiveness is indisputable and it's saved me from a shitload of pain over the years. The absence of recognisable or subliminal sensory triggers tells me it's gotta be psychic in origin and having met Maggie it's got me thinking it might be some sorta passive one way empathy deal that allows me to pick up on someone or several someone's who're zoned in on me. Whatever the hell it is, it's real and right now it's all but tearing my butt hairs out by their roots.

It's directional too. Not crosshair accurate, just general directional. Reckon whoever's currently focussing their attention on me is shore-side, probably using the clubhouse complex and close-by buildings for cover. Figure I didn't sense 'em before coz until Jessie and me boarded that damn boat neither of us was a surveillance mark. No focus equals no threat equals no hard-wired personal alarm call. Whatever the reason for the initial oversight, they're sure as hell paying attention now.

Got a generalised location so pinning down the eyeballers positions shouldn't pose too big a problem. Sniffing 'em out's for shit though. The onshore breeze puts me upwind of the creeps so all I'm getting is the overwhelming miasma of marine fuel and detritus shot through with the sharp tang of salt marsh and sea water. With my nose outta play I gotta rely on sight and sound. No great handicap but I'm keeping my sniffer deployed anyhow. Snap changes in wind direction happen all the time and guys on surveillance tend to give off a telltale kinda smell; a mixture of adrenalin, boredom and edginess. Catch me a whiff of that mixed with gun oil and the fuckers are as good as nailed.

Ambient noise poses a problem coz there's too many reflective surfaces. Across the marina the static roar of a high pressure water jet blasting a boat's hull and keel clean is proving difficult to filter out coz I'm heading towards it. Damn thing started up while I was aboard Sara's boat so I reckon the noise ain't gonna stop anytime soon. The racket's drowning out subtle, low key noises so I'll tune in to those of a higher pitch – like human voices. I don't like being so narrowly selective but thanks to the boat blaster I got no choice. Anyone talking in comms protocol will get my undivided attention. All I need is a lucky break. It's possible I'm dealing with a singleton operating without back-up but it's unlikely.

Looks like eyeballing's gonna be my main sensory input. My sight's sharper'n an eagle's; sharp enough to focus on subtle details and sudden movement from hundreds of yards away. Night vision's damn good too unless conditions are pitch black. Right now that ain't a problem.

Course, none of this would matter if I didn't have a brain capable of processing all the information flooding my senses. It's second nature to me but I'm thinking not all of it's instinctive. Somewhere down the line my senses got trained up for optimum utilisation and now that knowledge is surfacing, making itself available. Adrenaline's gotta be a trigger; gives me an avenue to explore when I get back to Westchester.

Scanning the marina unobtrusively is a piece of cake. The people out in the open are behaving normally; no covert glances; no nervous body language; nothing to indicate they ain't legit. Lotta hidey-holes though and several second and third storey windows obscured by vertical blinds. Couple of the blinds are swaying in the draught from open windows but I can only glimpse room interior when the strips occasionally billow apart and there ain't anyone being nosy behind 'em.

Best vantage point from which to keep tabs on the boat is from high up which means the main complex or the boatsheds. The roof of the single storey chandlery adjacent to the main building is too low and too exposed. The roof of the main building housing the bar, shop and offices is steeply pitched making it difficult, but not impossible, to hide a man. My money's on the three story extension which has a flat roof and what looks like a parapet with a safety rail. Taking another deep drag on my smoke I rake the roof with my peripheral vision. Anyone watching me through a rifle scope or binoculars won't see me looking directly at 'em. One mistake on their part and I got 'em nailed.

Bingo!

Approximately eighteen inches below the parapet lip are three, four inch diameter holes evenly spaced along the length of the extension frontage. They're drainage holes designed to channel rainwater from the roof and into the corresponding downspouts. Two of them are backlit by the sun, bright points in the shaded brick facade. One is dark, overshadowed by something hidden behind the parapet. Could be a number of innocent reasons for this; raised skylight or small air conditioning vent for example. Angle of the sun tells me whatever it is has to be close to the building's edge and way too close to the drainage hole. Poor design ain't outside the realms of possibility but some architect took the trouble to include a cambered roof with channels, hence the holes. Figure the obstruction ain't part of the original blueprints.

The sun's beating down hard enough to raise a sweat, a factor in my favour. Ya see, the thing about flat roofs is ya usually have one of three materials keeping the weather out: tar and gravel, bitumen or some sort of rubber membrane. Every one of these materials bakes in the heat making it unpleasant for anyone stretched out on it. Hot and sweaty people fidget, even highly trained ones and the fucker behind the parapet is no exception. I catch the motion of a boxy, more solid darkness moving inside the shadow of the hole. Profile looks like the business end of an M82 rifle, the sniper weapon of choice for Special Operations Forces. If these guys are military rather than feds or secret service that's just upped the stakes. It also means there could be two of 'em up there, the sniper and his spotter buddy. If there is a second guy he ain't giving away his position. Target pinpointed I can zone in on the position and maybe listen in to any comms or normal chatter. I get zilch. Stone fucking silence. They musta fallen out over who got the jelly doughnut.

'Kay, that's one, maybe two. A scan of the boatshed roofs reveals nothing obvious so I concentrate my efforts closer to the ground as I continue to make slow but steady progress along the dock. No way is the roof the only surveillance point and the opportunities to conceal a man out in the open are limited. A well placed dumpster occupying a crumbling strip of concrete beyond and slightly forward of the chandlery gets my scrutiny. A tall man could easily look out over the lip of the dumpster. Ain't got no lid but there's a black tarpaulin secured over more than half its length. At the dumpster's closest corner the tarp's partially raised by what looks like overfill, forming a strategically placed gap where it and the dumpster don't quite meet. The edge is flapping in the breeze but not enough to obscure the view of the dock and a chunk of the concrete forecourt leading down to the gate. That means there's a blind spot and anyone taking up station in the dumpster would lose me once I'd moved a handful of yards beyond the gate so I figure there's at least one more eyeballer taking up the slack. Someone inside the building maybe?

For now I concentrate my attention on the dumpster coz it's position makes it the prime contender for post two. Even if the wind switched to a more favourable direction I reckon the pungent odours of a full dumpster'd make it difficult to sniff out confirmation so it's just as well the douchebag taking up station inside is careless. A flash of paleness against deep shadow, the briefest movement as he shifts weight, tells me all I need to know. Although he's covered his face and is employing a pair of dark, non-reflective binos, the fucking amateur has forgotten about the nose pickers and ass scratchers sticking outta his fingerless rappelling gloves.

Target two identified. As I begin the search for number three I catch an unbelievable break. Faint, like a whisper being snatched away on the wind, but no less audible to my highly tuned sense of hearing, I hear a voice that don't belong.

"Harris, we got a make on this guy other than a licence plate?" The voice sounds both whispered and artificial, almost metallic, which it would if it's issuing from a nearby mouth attached to a comms device. It's coming from the dumpster coz I heard the distinct snap of wind-blown tarp over comms as he spoke.

"Still awaiting intel, Major."

So they're military. Didn't factor that. Question is why send them on a domestic shut down mission? Passive reception from the major's outburst of impatience gives me a line on three other targets; one high, which I already know about and two others deployed at ground level. The asshole identified as Harris seems to be hanging out in the alley between the main building and the chandlery, probably the guy taking up the slack of the dumpster's blind spot. The fourth source is much closer, practically up my ass. Only place he could be is in the vicinity of the store sheds I've just passed. Too fucking close for comfort. The steel fence between him and the boat don't lessen the danger.

Why is this bozo's position so much closer than those of his buddies? Don't need close proximity to watch so what's he up to? A cold hard knot forms in my gut. Obvious reason'd be he's equipped with electronic ears. Damn, if he's a listening post then it means he probably heard what went down aboard ship. This raises a bigger question, like why ain't they scrambling someone to intercept me? Did they already make the arrangements while I was outlining my strategy? If that's the case, why ain't these guys wound up and acting like the hounds of hell are snapping at their tails? They pulling a bluff? The two voices I've heard don't sound like they're on edge but they're distorted by distance and radio carrier so it's hard to tell for sure. Quickest way to spring a potential ambush is to stick with my plan until I know for certain it's fucked up and then wing it. Knowing that any surprise they spring ain't a surprise is to my advantage. Far as I know they ain't got a clue about my enhanced senses. 'Sides, I got no choice. Until I neutralise these assholes Jessie and the others are caught like rats in a trap and that's a situation I ain't gonna tolerate.

Fuck all I can do about the guy behind me so I concentrate on what I'm walking into. Harris'll never know it but his reply gave me intel on him and his buddies. He called dumpster guy major, not sir. Close knit team in the field ain't normally hot on formalities. Maybe he's a new boy but my money's on him being something else. He's real close to the main building, somewhere near the mouth of that alley but I ain't got him pinpointed yet. Soon as he opens his yap again I'll have him. I take another drag of the cigar and exhale, cocking my head slightly as if to avoid getting smoke in my eyes.

"Here comes the preliminary,." Harris' voice announces. "Logan Wolff, Canadian citizen. Ex park ranger out of BC. No known living relatives. No known link to target so far. Relocated to Salem Centre, New York, November 2003. Runs a one man operation over the internet from a rented address. Specialises in wilderness survival training and also takes parties out into the wild on treks and hunting trips which means he conveniently drops off the radar on regular, protracted occasions."

As Harris recites the intel bleed Charlie's tame Fed put in place, I got no problem twentying his ass. Partially obscured by a corner of the main building is a white Ford van apparently belonging to a local refrigeration service and repair company. It's reverse parked at an angle so I can't see the van's ass end but I can see enough to tell me the cab ain't occupied. One of the roof vents is spinning like crazy in the breeze. The other ain't. Could be broken of course but if that's the case why is it slowly contra-rotating?

A chronic paranoiac like me would suspect there's a camera mounted inside that vent so someone stationed in the van can see everything going down outside. Harris is inside pulling off data from federal sources and these two facts tell me I'm looking at a mobile command unit disguised as an innocuous civilian contractor. Trick like that just plain stinks of spook.

"Still nothing on the classy piece of tail he brought with him. Control hasn't got a line on her yet," Harris adds.

Whoa! That ain't right. If these guys are protecting an agenda how come Harris can't ID Jessie? What the hell's going on?

"This guy's got mutie written all over him. And here he is associating with a known traitor and mutie sympathiser. I'd bet a month's pay you're looking at one of the brainfuck terrorists, major. Ghost the cunt."

Well ain't that just peachy. Looks like mutants are gonna receive the shit end of the federal stick yet again and this time it's for Migraine Monday.

"Pulaski, any luck with the damn mike yet?" the major demands.

"That's a negative, sir. All I'm receiving is whistles and static. If this piece of shit is state of the art technology then I'm Britney Spears."

Vectoring in on the reply I learn that Pulaski is the guy hanging out near the storage shed and he sounds real pissed. The fuck-up fairy came up snake-eyes for 'im but not for me. The failure of the electronic ear is music to my organic ones. The puke-crusts ain't got a fucking clue what's coming their way and that suits me better'n a good beer.

"That piece of equipment is supposed to be idiot proof, corporal. Are you sure you've switched it on?" Harris sneers. "The button is trigger shaped so even an inverse military genius like you can't get confused."

What the fuck? Is this Harris a retard? Why's he riding the guy like a bitch? If he's a spook he's either incompetent or working an angle. I gotta find out which coz if this bastard's playing a secret game I need to know what it is.

"_Mister_ Harris, do you have any fresh intel you wish to share? Maybe a definitive insight as to why I should give the order to murder an apparently unarmed man for walking along a dock?"

"Not right now."

"Then with all due respect, kindly shut the fuck up."

Someone on the roof sniggers.

"Bladon, any sign of our target?"

"Just the guy on the dock, sir."

Is Bladon the sniper or the spotter? Do I got one or two tangos on the fucking roof? Clarification ain't forthcoming. On the positive side Bladon's response tells me Jessie's being a good girl and keeping her pretty head down.

"Major, your attitude is seriously jeopardising this mission. You aren't in the desert playing duck-shoot with some ragged-ass fucking sand nigger. You're here to eliminate a serious threat to national security no matter who gets in the way."

Guess Harris ain't the type to meekly shut the fuck up.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to sanction a Canadian national's ass because you don't like the look of the guy? My orders are clear. We are here to observe. We engage only if there is a clear and present danger to human life. The equipment your people foisted on us has failed to establish this guy's status and unless you possess intel confirming him as a hostile you _will_ cease and desist passing off your personal prejudices as valid input. Do I make myself clear?"

The major and his men ain't coming across as immoral creeps which means I ain't gonna take 'em down nasty if I can avoid it. As for the motherless scum in the van, I got a short and razor sharp shock lined up for him. One way or another he's gonna spill his fucking guts for me.

Harris falls silent save for his stress-heavy breathing. Meanwhile I'm through the gate and strolling towards the bar.

"Okay, I'm about to lose visual on Wolff," the major announces. "Pulaski, stow the mike and take up the slack. He meets someone I want to know about it. If he farts when he should be belching you tell me. I need to know if this guy is legit or up to his ears in shit. Set your comm to whisper mode, three minute cycles, two clicks. One or none will bring the cavalry."

"Understood, sir. Setting my comm to whisper mode, three minute cycles, two clicks reset."

Putting Pulaski on my tail solves a big tactical headache for me, how to take him out. Thanks for the gift, major. If you guys are on the level I'll try not to bend your boy too much outta shape when I get up close and personal with him.

-o0o-

The interior of the bar is clean, well lit and has a definite nautical theme. The walls are clad in polished hardwood tongue and groove and my boots don't stick to the carpet as I make my way to the counter. Stark contrast to the Auger. Even the cigarette smoke in here is of superior quality. And less of it too. Maybe someone oughta take Sal to one side and explain, in words of one syllable, the principle behind extraction fans.

There're maybe a dozen people, mostly couples, sat at tables. They talk, they drink; some are eating sandwiches. The smell of the food makes my stomach growl. That shit I had at the bistro didn't even fill a corner. Shame I got other priorities right now otherwise I'd do something about the hole in my belly where food oughta be. I grab a stool at the counter and check out the bottled beer. Ain't much of a selection so I settle for an import and order a Grolsch. The mirror running the length of the wall behind the counter allows me to monitor most of the room, including the entrance to the bar.

I'm halfway through my beer when a guy saunters into the bar. The buzz-cut, the reek of gun oil and the tell tale bulge in the left armpit beneath his leather bomber jacket tells me all I need to know. Subtle ain't in the military manual coz he carries himself like he's looking for trouble. He's wiry, about five ten and nervous. I put his age at late twenties. Gotta be Pulaski. He pauses in the doorway his dark eyes checking out the scene, his expression feigning nonchalance and failing miserably. He ain't very good at playing spook or undercover cop. I hear a faint buzz and try not to smile as his right hand dips into his jacket pocket. There are two distinct clicks as he resets his comfort alarm. I'm gonna need the guy's comm when I book out the back door and now I won't hafta waste time patting him down for the damn thing if he goes surly on me.

Pulaski slides onto a bar stool not three feet from me, his rendition of at ease casual on the negative side of pisspoor. He's on edge, his heart pumping hard as his gaze flickers across the beer labels. Choice made the pansy orders the weakest beer available. I take another pull at my own beer, drinking in his scent at the same time. What he's giving off is a combination of anticipation, excitement and anxiety. Confidence is there too, threading in an out of his psyched up state. He's primed for a throw-down. Maybe someone oughta advise him to be careful what ya wish for…

Fingers wrapped around his beer he studies it before raising the bottle to his lips and taking a sip. I try not to smirk as he punishes his taste buds. Replacing the bottle on the bar he swivels his head and engages me.

"Do you have a boat moored here?" he asks, friendly stranger mode.

Definitely a fucking amateur. "Nope." I take a good swig at my own beer and keep my gaze forward, watching him in the mirror.

"Looking for a live-aboard myself. Cheaper than renting an apartment."

Watching his performance is almost painful. Kid's gonna have me in tears if he keeps this up. "Wouldn't know."

"That's a Canadian accent isn't it? You on holiday then?"

Christ on a broomstick, this is gonna take all frikking day! "You a cop or something?"

The guy's face reddens. His grasp of the engage and interrogate game is very rudimentary and he knows it. "No. I'm just trying to be friendly."

Turning to face him I advise, "Then, Mister Just Trying To Be Friendly, mind yer own fucking business."

I raise my beer to my lips and take another drink. I believe in baptism by fire so I ain't gonna make this easy for him. Gonna shove a bug so far up his ass it'll be swinging on his tonsils. I want him baited. I want him on the verge of losing his rag so what comes next will go down fast and smooth. Ain't got all fucking day to nursemaid the kid. I finish up my drink, order another one and slap some money on the counter.

"Where's the john?" I ask of the bartender as he plonks another bottle down in front of me.

"Through the door that says Bosun's Lounge. The restrooms are at the far end."

"Thanks." I slide off the stool and follow the directions. Scoping the layout for alternative exits is for shit save for a fire exit that spills out onto the forecourt. That's no fucking use at all. Last thing I wanna do is put on another show for the ringsiders outside.

I hit the restroom and find a guy washing up so I splash the porcelain waiting for him to leave. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity while it's there. Hanging out in a restroom while waiting on a man ain't normally the way I pass time but today I'm making an exception. Wonder how long it'll take GI Joe to get nervous and check me out? The door swings open but it ain't my mark, its just a customer. Guy takes a whiz and leaves without washing his hands.

Door hardly closes before I hear the hinges creak as it opens slowly. Pulaski's reflection is a dim smear in the ceramic wall tiles but his scent confirms his identity. I can smell the backwash of action ready he's giving off. He's primed for a scrap but all he sees is me washing my hands. Rubber soled shoes squeak as he walks across the floor vinyl. I hear a zipper unfastening and the sound of him pissing is my cue to move. Praying no one else gets taken short in the next few minutes I pop my left index claw and have it scraping against the kid's adam's apple before he realises he's just boarded the Shit Creek boat.

"Keep both hands on yer dick," I hiss quietly into his ear.

"Look fella, I don't have much cash on me but what I have is yours. Just don't hurt me, okay?"

"Cut the bullshit, kid. We both know this ain't a robbery." To his credit he doesn't flinch, doesn't even draw in breath; just freezes. He's scared. Reeks of it. Not a bad place for him to be as far as I'm concerned. There's rising anger too; introspective. He's just walked slap bang into the most basic trap like the greenhorn he is.

"One wrong move, Pulaski, and I'll carve ya a second smile." Don't want him getting any funny ideas. His breath catches in his throat and his pulse skyrockets as fresh adrenaline gets dumped into his bloodstream. He twitches when I say his name so I'm betting he's wondering how the fuck I know who he is.

With my free hand I reach into his jacket pocket and snag the comm unit. Ain't no bigger than a cigarette carton and there's a small digital readout flashing red as it counts down; one three eight, one three seven. I stash it in my jeans pocket. It'll let me know when it needs attention.

Popping my right index claw I place it across Pulaski's throat, freeing my left hand. "Now for the piece." Reaching across him is inviting an aikido throw so I make him disarm himself. "Left hand, use one finger and thumb only." The gun turns out to be a Glock which I don't think is service issue. I check the safety's on before thrusting it into my waistband.

"If you know who I am you know I'm not alone," Pulaski says.

"Like I give a fuck."

"How do you know my name?"

He's playing for time, stringing me along until his pals outside hotfoot it in here when the double click ain't forthcoming.

"I know a lot of things. I know Harris wants you to off a navy officer for stumbling across a nasty political conspiracy that goes all the way up to the top." A brainwave hits me. It's a long shot but it'll put some doubt into the mind of this guy, perhaps make him more inclined to talk. "Ain't in his interest for you to find out Navy's on the level. Why d'ya think he gave ya a mike that don't work?"

Psyching out the kid pays a dividend coz his WTF chemicals redline. The seeds of doubt take instant root which tells me Pulaski don't have much trust for Harris, period. That plus I figure there's residual anger from Harris' taunts. This is just too fucking easy.

"Who the hell are you? Who are you working for?"

"Logan Wolff and I'm freelance. Why is the US military involved in a domestic counter-terrorist operation?" He clams up. "C'mon, kid. Don't go all shy just as we're starting to get along."

"Fuck you!"

I laugh, a nasty strangled noise designed to send a chill down the stoutest spine. It works. "That ain't a smart thing to say to the guy holding nine inches of razor sharp adamantium to yer throat."

He swallows very carefully. "If you know who we are and what we are then you also know why we're here."

"Hey I said I know a lot of things. Didn't say I know everything. So what excuse did Harris' outfit dream up? All the other counter-terrorist spooks too busy polishing their guns or is it the old there's a traitor in the organisation and we don't know who to trust scam?"

I feel him flinch again. Oh, he's gotta be so fucking kidding me. I thought only Hollywood chumps fell for that one.

"The people on that boat ain't done anything wrong. Harris wants you to grease two innocent civilians and a straight up Navy officer to cover up a festering clusterfuck that goes all the way to the top of the heap. Yer being set up and guess which bunch of trigger happy military yahoos takes the fall when this mission officially goes tits up? Don'tcha know spooks always play with loaded dice?"

I'm getting to him, kid stinks of it. Don't stop him trying to be an asshole though. "Are you going to kill me or just bore me to death with lies and head games?"

"Just doing you and your friends a favour, son. If I was gonna kill ya you'd be dead already." Clock's running and I got no time for this bullshit so I step away from him. Taking my withdrawal as a cue he whips around, ready for a throw down until he registers the blade I held to his throat is embedded between my knuckles. I pop the other five just for the hell of it and the blood drains from his face.

"You're a mutant!"

"Yeah, the original Eddie Fucking Scissorhands. In there!" I point at a stall

Both eyebrows rise, raising furrows on his forehead. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Do I look like Jay Leno? Move it!"

The look in his eyes tells me the dumb shit ain't gonna go down without a fight and I ain't got the time to give him one. Since I got the jump on him the kid's been an adrenaline factory. Now I'm picking up the vinegar reek of acetylcholine as he fires up his muscles, tensing his body for action.

He's got three choices, left, right or straight through me but I don't think he's stupid enough to run himself onto my claws. Pulaski makes his move. It comes as no surprise when the hapless prick feints to the right before going low and breaking left. I'm ready for him, grabbing a handful of his jacket collar and jerking him off his feet. Most guys would've landed on their ass but not this one. Arms flailing violently as he twists in mid air, he uses his momentum to launch a low, untidy body tackle. Smooth move. Might've paid off had I not stepped aside at the last moment. 'Course, an evil bastard would've opened him up from shoulder to butt crack. Lucky for him I'm trying out for the good guys right now.

Pulaski crashes but he ain't ready to burn. He executes a nifty shoulder roll to cushion the impact of slamming into the floor, finds his feet and comes back at me fast. Once again he feints, his upper body poised to throw a punch. Instead he pivots and launches a roundhouse kick. Mighta worked too if I'd been some dumb fuck. Ain't no big deal to snag his foot, use my superior strength and his impetus to wrench him off balance before dumping him on his ass. He rolls again, springing to his feet, putting more distance between us, giving himself a little breathing space to plan his next move.

Body settling into a go any which way stance he waits coz he reckons he's got an ace up his sleeve and all he's gotta do is keep me at bay for a few seconds longer. His heart's thumping against his ribcage, forcing his breath out in short, harsh gasps. Eyes narrowed to slits, lips peeled back in a teeth baring rictus, he leans slightly forward, anticipating my counter attack. Kid's got a pair on him; a real live wire, but he's outclassed and I'm out of patience. I sheathe the claws and pull out the gun; thumbing the safety off I point the muzzle at his face.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

Pulaski's alarm gatecrashes the party, it's silent alert throbbing against my thigh. Without taking my eyes off the kid, I transfer the Glock to my left hand and reach into my pocket for the comm unit. The digits are zeroing out: six, five four...

_Click click._

Alarm reset I shove the thing back in my pocket.

Pulaski's eyebrows crawl skywards again.

"How did you…?" With the hope of immediate rescue receding fast the kid begins the rethink his situation. The conclusion he reaches is, "Our comms are scrambled. How the hell did you break the code?"

"Who says I had to?" Kid's face is a picture but I don't give him time to think some more. Advancing on him, keeping the gun rock steady, I bark, "In the stall." This time the kid does as he's told and sidles across the restroom, never taking his gaze off me. The telltale vinegar smell is tainting the air again but he ain't gonna get the chance to waste more of my time. As Pulaski backs into a stall his arms shoot sideways, bracing him against the doorposts. My boot in his gut knocks the air out of him, sends him sprawling backwards and he lands on the toilet with a thump.

"Don't piss me off, kid. It ain't worth the pain."

"You won't get away with this."

"Sure I will. Now strip."

"What?"

"You heard me. Strip. Right down to yer tighty whities."

"Why?"

"Why d'ya think?"

A creeping tide of deep red flushes Pulaski's cheeks as his emotional excretions go critical. Reckon his imagination's running wild coz now panic and desperation join his reeking desire to kick my head in.

Suddenly aware his dick is still poking out of his shorts he hastily tucks it from sight.

Can't help myself not to grin at his newly acquired modesty. "Don't worry, kid. You ain't my type."

Pulaski's eyes flicker from my face to the gun and back. He's sizing up the sitch and judging from his expression, he ain't reached a happy conclusion.

"Get 'em off son." I pop my left claws. "If I have to do it I guarantee you won't enjoy the experience." I flex my clawed fist to drive the threat home. Ain't beyond the realms of probability the kid might have a weapon or two concealed. "No sudden moves either. You so much as twitch funny and you're shish kebab."

He stands and strips; jacket and shirt come off first, followed by his vest. They form an untidy heap at his feet. Stripped to the waist he waits, staring at me, his panic turning to a slow, hot anger.

"Hey, did I say ya could take a break. bub?"

At an impasse Pulaski lowers himself onto the toilet and tugs off his boots and socks. While he's working at unfastening his belt I hear footsteps approaching the restroom. Without a second thought I reverse the gun and club the kid on the side of the head with the grip. My boot on his chest stops him slumping to the floor as I pull the stall door closed and lock us both in. Just in time too. The restroom door hinges creak, someone comes in, takes a piss and then leaves.

Can't leave the kid to raise the alarm. Can't kill him either. Don't have any cuffs or twine so I gotta rag the kid's clothes. The stall's cosy, forcing us into close quarters, but the claws make short work of the material without the necessity of too much arm movement. His shirt and vest'll be adequate for the job so there ain't no point cutting the kid's pants off. I gag him with a sock fastened in place by a strip of shirt. The comm alert interrupts me as I'm binding his wrists and I'm forced to stop and reset the damn thing. After tying his knees and ankles together I use what's left to bungee him to the plumbing.

I finish the job and examine him. He groans and I give him a love tap with my fist to put him back under Take no pleasure outta hurting the kid but him waking up too soon and raising the alarm ain't factored into my immediate plans. I check his pulse and his eyes. Pulaski's pupils are even, his pulse slow and steady but he's out for the duration. Gonna have a headache and the mother of a contusion but otherwise he should be okay. I wanna leave the stall door locked from the inside but the almost zero manoeuvring space makes it difficult to climb out. Solution's easy enough; I boost myself over the partition using the kid's shoulder as a brace. Ain't like he's gonna complain is it? Another insistent vibration in my pocket sets my teeth on edge. That damn alarm's beginning to piss me off.

Exiting the building unseen is my new priority. Not a good idea doubling back through the bar to look for the back door and perhaps running slap-bang into one of the kid's buddies or a nosy marina employee so I gotta be creative. Just as well someone invented windows coz I intend to make good use of the one letting light into the restroom. It'll be a tight fit so I open it, stick my head through and check to see if the coast is clear. There's a narrow path between the building an a narrow creek. Beyond the creek is a six foot chain-link fence topped by razor wire and beyond that, tall reeds and marsh grass. Seabirds call to one another but there ain't a soul in sight. Grabbing a waste bin I upend it and use it as a step before squeezing my frame through the narrow opening. Jeezus! Now I know what it feels like to be CheezWhiz.

Messing with the kid's head didn't allow me the opportunity to pump him for information about the roof deployment which is a pity. Can't be helped. One guy ain't a problem but two could be tricky. Two means a Hail Mary play and the odds of taking 'em both out quietly are longer than I like. Gonna find out soon enough coz the roof is my next objective. There ain't no fire escape on this side of the building so I guess I gotta improvise. The restroom's situated in the extension and I'm only ten feet away from a down-pipe, one draining water from the roof. By the look of it, it's parallel to the one occupied by the sniper.

The amazing thing about convenient holes is, ya can look into 'em as well as out. I can spy out the lie of the land without sticking my head above the parapet and this time I'll be downwind so my nose'll tell me what I need to know. I don't wait for the alarm to recycle to make my ascent. The higher up the wall I am before reset is due, the better my optimal time is, and timing is gonna be critical.

Shimmying up the drainpipe ain't an option, not with the bonus weight I'm packing. Good job I got me two sets of integral pitons. Adamantium cuts through almost anything and they'll sink into brick as sweetly as a lubed finger into a hot woman. Gotta pay particular attention to stealth, don't wanna announce my presence prematurely but I'm one sneaky motherfucker so I figure I got it covered. All I gotta worry about is discovery from the ground and whether or not there's more than one guy on the roof.

Up I go, blades sliding into the masonry with hardly any effort and I scale the wall faster than even I believed possible. An alien though occurs to me. I'm in my element, putting my body and mind to uses I'd never dreamed of. While I was busy tooling around the Great White North scratching a living from cage fights, staying one step ahead of the mob, I coulda made myself filthy rich as a master thief. It's definitely a consideration if my association with Charlie ever goes to hell.

Halfway up I hear a couple of guys step into the alley from one of the buildings. I can smell cigarette smoke and they're having a friendly argument over some football match. Seems bumming around in the alley while enjoying a smoke is for shit coz now they're on the move and heading my way. Damn, I ain't exactly a chameleon and ya don't need to be Einstein to glance up and catch me doing a Spidey. This is not good. I keep going, my only chance to gain height, hoping it'll take me out of range of a casual glance. Two guys dressed like chefs turn the corner and I press myself into the brick desperately thinking go-small thoughts, willing myself to turn invisible, offering to sell my soul if only they don't look up. Fortunately the unscheduled intrusion is so engrossed in talking football they pass directly underneath me without incident. Wish they'd hurry the fuck up. While I'm waiting for them to shift their carcases the buzzer goes off. Don't I just have fun dangling from one set of claws while I fumble in my pocket to reset the comm, cursing the fucking thing silently.

Danger past I take it slowly, inching myself high enough to peer through the drainage hole. Thanks to the architect for his precision and symmetry I've got a boots-on view of the sniper stretched out on his belly. What's more, he's alone. From this vantage point the wind's in my favour and there's no trace of a second scent. It's gratifying to see the roof's set with bitumen rather than gravel which makes sneaking up and taking this guy a piece of piss. Only potential problem I need worry about is if he decides to check his six while I'm creeping up on him. Sun's behind me so I gotta keep low to prevent my shadow falling across him. Also, I don't wanna be seen from the forecourt. Like I said, piece of piss.

Less than a minute after climbing over the parapet I punch the guy in the head and he slumps, his nerveless hands relinquishing the M82 which falls with a muffled clatter onto the soft bitumen surface. Working fast I bend the barrel of the rifle. I got no use for it and neither does he. Popping a claw I cut away the shoulder strap and use it to tie Bladon's hands behind his back, tight but not enough to cut off his circulation. Wanna put the guy outta play, not cripple him. Guy's just doing his job and there's no way I'm gonna make nasty for that. A quick pat down gets me his comm which I trash with extreme prejudice, grinding it beneath the heel of my hand. Bits of plastic become embedded into the heat softened bitumen, lacerating it's smoothness. If they can find me they can bill me.

The absence of a second guy bothers me. A lone sniper ain't unheard of but a planned operation, be it army, government security agency or SWAT, sends two men; one to observe and watch their six and the other as the triggerman. If this is a counter-terrorist mission it means this ain't a Mickey Mouse op so why does it feel like one? I don't like the way the facts are stacking up. It don't feel right, don't smell right. Ain't no way these guys are special ops trained which begs the question – why are they here? Why send ordinary grunts on a covert anti-terrorist mission? I'm saying covert coz they ain't in uniform and although the M82 is regulation issue the Glock ain't. I chuck this mystery onto the growing pile of weird shit I ain't got time to worry over just now. Got an urgent fix to do and what needs fixing next is the major. I wanna spend some time interrogating the fucktard in the van without any interruption from his buddies. The buzzer goes off and I double click for what I swear is gonna be the last frigging time.

Quickest way off this roof's the same way I came up and this time gravity's on my side. Halfway down I hear the major trying to raise Bladon. Out of time I let myself drop the last twenty feet and hit the ground running. On reaching the corner I peer into the alley that separates the chandlery from the main building. I got a clearer view of the spookmobile from this end of the complex. No one's around although I can hear voices emanating from an open doorway. The aroma of cooking wafts down the alley and I surmise it's where the two guys came from. A quick recon gives me a coupla cars parked between me an the van. Scant cover, not that I'm looking for any. Certainly no help covering the exposed fifteen or so metres between my current position and the opposite building. Uppermost in my mind is wondering how paranoid or well trained the spook in the van is.

The roof vent camera is trained forward, monitoring the dock and forecourt. Nope, it's moving, performing a leisurely three sixty sweep. I duck my head outta sight and count to five before taking another look-see. As soon as the camera's eye enters it's second one eighty arc I move, running low and fast for the opposite corner. Can't hear anyone screaming a warning, no one's leaping out at me gun in hand. I'm good to go.

"Bladon, what the hell are you doing? Harris, all I'm getting is static."

"I'm running a diagnostic now, Derwent."

"This entire fucking mission is bullshit. First the mike, now Bladon's comm. Something's wrong. I'm coming over there."

Dammit! Don't do this to me major.

Legs pumping furiously I clear the rear of the chandlery and turn into a second alley separating it from the first of the boatsheds. Zero people. My luck's holding, which is a fucking miracle given the number of people hanging out around here. Out of time, I run like hell towards the dumpster, sacrificing stealth for speed. At the dock end of the alley is the dumpster, open ended from this side, stacked high with plastic crates and palettes. There looks to be enough room for a man to walk unhindered between the dumpster's right wall and its contents and a good portion of the tarp hangs down in thick folds to obscure the major's hidey-hole. Takes no time to zone my senses in and I can hear his breathing, his muttered expletives. There's a faint rasp, sounds like he's pulled off his ski mask or whatever off of his face or maybe removed a glove. Any second now he's gonna be lifting that tarp and letting in the daylight. First thing he'll cope a load of is me, incoming, and that ain't a good thing. Redoubling my effort, I hurtle towards my goal, reaching the dumpster as the major begins to haul the tarp aside, the plastic scraping roughly across the grime encrusted dumpster floor. No time for finesse, I launch a punch at where I reckon his head should be. My fist connects and I hear a sharp crack and a grunt of pain then the sound of something heavy hitting the floor of the dumpster. The tarp bulges outwards, dragging part of its secured end towards me. Popping a claw I slice into the tarp like it's a sausage skin. Guy's only dazed coz he's beginning to stir and I can hear a groan building up inside of him. Him alerting Harris won't do at all. As soon as I sure what I'm hitting I rap him on the head with my fist and he relaxes into unconsciousness. Sorry, bub but ya just don't feature in my showdown with Harris.

A lacework of blood covers the major's face, trickles disappearing into his hairline and dripping along his jaw and onto his collar. The crack I heard was me blindly trashing his earpiece and the sharp edges have cut into the hard gristle of his ear. Takes no time to follow the wire to the small unit secreted in an inside pocket of a windbreaker. I make a fist around it, crushing it, and throwing it into a crate.

Major's taken care of. Ain't gonna give Harris any time to get spooked and rabbit so stealth ain't needed anymore, just speed. The dumpster is hidden from the van's camera by the chandlery and if Harris is performing regular three sixties that gives me a window to hit the van and take the mother by surprise. It's possible he's the last of the team but I ain't taking the chance of him alerting some spook or military back-up maybe waiting in the wings.

Hauling down more of the tarp I bunch it into folds to disguise the body shaped lump that's the major. Don't want a casual observer raising the alarm just yet. A second after leaving the dumpster two people, a man and a woman, emerge from the chandlery. They're chatting about a new sail and the woman suggests they have lunch. Forced to walk so I don't attract any attention I follow them as they head towards the main building, stopping as I reach the end of the chandlery. A quick glance into the alley tells me the camera is monitoring the forecourt and Harris'll see me for sure if I move from cover. Fuck!

Harris seems oblivious of his buddies demises as he announces, "Derwent, diagnostic reveals nothing. It must be a unit malfunction."

Derwent must be the guy I just give the ear job too. Hey, bub, don'tcha know the major's past caring about shit like that? C'mon, asshole, swing that vent. There ya go. As the camera turns I move, hitting the van before the vent hits its six.

"Major, respond!"

He can't, asshole. Lemme show ya why.

Yanking the door of the van open I rush it's sole occupant who's seated in front of a console. Claws flash as I slice his comms headset into pieces, taking chunks of skin and ear in the process. There's a lot of gore and some gaping holes but it's nothing that some seriously expensive plastic surgery can't cure. Although dazed and pouring blood Harris darts his arm forward, wiping the information displayed on the console screen. Shame for him he wasn't fast enough. Cost's him though. Just for the hell of it I mash the offending hand between my fist on the console top. There's a satisfying crunch as fingers dislocate and fracture.

"Fuck?!" Harris manages to spit out I grab him by the throat and exert pressure on his windpipe.

"Who am I?" I snarl into his profusely bleeding ear.

"L…Logan Wolff." He chokes on his words and my grip begins to crush the soft tissue of his throat. He didn't share the information on the screen with his buddies and I wanna know why.

"Wrong answer, bub." Taking a handful of his wiry brown hair I slam down hard, smashing his face into the console. Desperate to protect his face he manages to twist his head partially to one side. Nevertheless, the impact breaks some teeth and wrecks the keyboard. Blood spatters.

"Who am I? Don't make me ask again."

"Wolverine." He spits blood and a bit of broken tooth onto the floor. Gouts of blood spurt from his nose, dribbling down his face and onto his expensive designer shirt.

"What the fuck is Spearhead?"

"They are the people who own your ass, you psycho mutie freak."

"Yer a slow study, bub." Asshole gets to eat keyboard again and this time I make sure I break his fucking nose.

"Gnnnngh…ARGHHHmmmmph." I cut off the scream by clamping my hand over his mouth. Too soon to let him attract attention. Time enough for that after me, Jess and the others have booked. The lower half of his face is a bloody mask, his skin slick with a mixture of blood and mucus. Unable to breath properly through his mangled nose he twists his head violently, trying to free himself. Like that's gonna happen.

"Wanna feel me breaking your entire face or are ya gonna tell me what I want to know?"

He goes as limp as a rag doll in my hands, hoping his dead weight will work against me. It don't. Gripping his hair more tightly I force him upright and then jerk him closer, bending his upper body over the back of his seat. I ain't gentle about it neither.

"Fuck you!"

"Ya need a dick for that." I stab him in his right thigh, close enough to his groin it makes no odds. The acrid stink of warm piss fills the van as fear response empties his bladder. The crotch and thigh area of his beige pants turns brown as the material soaks up the liquid.

"Well look at that! Don't they potty train you creeps?"

"Urrrrgh." Blood bubbles from his mouth as he groans, forms a new rivulet down the side of his chin.

"This is how it's gonna be. Tell me what I want to know or your dick is fish food and you'll be pissing like a girl for the rest of your life. Diss me and your balls join it. Capiche?"

I dig my claw deeper into his thigh to reinforce the message just as he coughs, spraying a ballistic rain of blood over the console and screen. Blood wells from the thigh wound, soaking into his trousers, running to pink when it mixes with piss. It's a minor wound for all it's bleeding but timely, I think. He shudders, fear streaming off him like a chemical Niagara.

"Okay, let's try again. Who or what is Spearhead?" Harris' head begins to loll in my grip so I sheath the claw and slap him in the face. "Pay attention, shithead. You can sleep later."

"Uuuuuuuurh! Dunno! Neb'r heard 'v 'em. Screed said suber-soldier project. 'S'all I dow.

Smell he's giving off says he's telling the truth. Super-soldier project? Does he mean Weapon X? File it away for later.

"How come you didn't share this with yer buddies?"

"Need to kdow…"

And they didn't need to know. Fucking spooks. I let it pass.

"What's Jessica Commeau got to do with this?"

"Who?"

"Not good enough." I make to smash his face into the blood spattered console.

"Naaaaaah! Nebber heard ovda broad Please, y…ya godda b'lieve me."

Again, I ain't getting any sense of him lying to me. Another fucking puzzle. Why send this moron after Ahab without a thorough briefing on Jessie and risk him offing the person they're apparently murdering people to protect? Am I seeing some sort of bizarre double-cross coming into play here? What the hell is going on?

"Who sent ya?"

"Para-huban Counderforce Initiative." He spits out more blood. One of his eyes is rapidly swelling shut and the other looks like a raw oyster stuffed into a mess of fresh roadkill.

Fancy name tells me fuck all. "Never heard of ya." Asshole's becoming dead weight as he slowly looses his grip on consciousness. Clamping his jaw in a rough grip I twist his head up and back, forcing him to look me in the face. His functional brown eye glares at me in fear. "No ya don't. Not yet. Where's yer back-up?"

"No b…back-up."

Again, I can't smell a lie. The paranoid bastard in my head tells me it ain't no guarantee, that it's time to grab Jessie and rabbit. Before I go I can't resist pitching the cocksucker a curve ball. Ain't sure what it'll prove but ya never know.

"How come ya gave the kid a rigged mike?" Harris made a point of taunting Pulaski. There's gotta be a reason for it. Like he knew the mike was fucked.

Paydirt! The bitter stink of an adrenaline spike cuts through the fear/blood/piss miasma. Guess my long-shot ain't so fucking long after all. Harris' reply is to violently throw himself to one side, the motion ripping him from my grip as he tumbles from his seat. His reflexes are still good even though his brain's been rattled. That or I'm getting too cocky and losing my touch. I barely felt him tense up before he jack-knifed himself free and now he's writhing across the floor, his good hand shooting out, frantically scrabbling for something under the console. All to quickly I'm staring down the barrel of a Magnum forty-five. Even with a healing factor it's gonna fucking hurt if he gets a round off. Harris' knuckles turn white as his finger squeezes the trigger and I spring into action.

No ya don't. I got enough shit piled on my plate already. As fast as Harris is, I'm faster. A karate chop to his wrist shatters bone and the gun clatters to the floor. I snatch it up and laugh when I discover he forgot to release the safety. I shove the gun in my waistband next to Pulaski's Glock. Quite a collection I got going. Seizing his collar in a two-handed grip I haul him to his feet.

"Bad move, bub," I spit out before slamming him into the console hard enough to dent the panel. The van rocks under the impact and Harris emits a deep groan along with the air forced from his lungs.

"One last time, fuckwit. What's going on?"

Harris raises his head, looks me right in the eyes and laughs. At least that's what his strangled gurgle sounds like. "If I dew dat sub other dub fuck 'ud be your punch-bag."

Ain't that the fucking truth? I'm wasting my time here. This guy knows bupkis. He's just an expendable bottom feeder. I hit him one last time and his jaw shatters like glass beneath the force of the blow. When I release him he drops, sagging like a discarded coat. He got what was coming. Shouldn'ta been so damn keen to murder folks that don't deserve it.

My hands are covered in blood so I do my best to wipe it off on the back of Harris' shirt. Can't do anything about the blood spatters on my clothes but the stains ain't as bad as they coulda been. Harris got off light. He got off with his life.

I destroy what's left of the equipment and climb out of the van, shutting the door and ripping off the handle after trashing the lock. If by some miracle Harris comes to in the next five minutes and starts to yell – if he can yell – his rescuers'll hafta wreck the door to get to him.

Deliberate and conspicuous I walk out onto the dock, inviting the attention of any eyeballer. Nothing, not even a ghost of a sixth sense twitch. Pulaski's comms unit is buzzing away in my pocket for a while but I ignore it. Gotta contact Jessie. Taking her cell outta my pocket I hit the speed-dial for Sara.

Jessie answers. "Logan?"

"Opposition's been neutralised. Time to move yer sweet ass, darlin'."

"Are you okay?"

"No time. Get out of there right now before someone gets around to missing some guys."

"You got it."

I can hear Jessie issuing marching orders and the salon door sliding open. By not severing the connection she remains in contact but focuses on the task at hand. Through the gate I break into a run, any pretence of none urgency long gone. The questioning glances of people relaxing on their boats marks my progress but I ignore them. Jessie appears first, her nimble feet making quick work of the stern ladder. I'm starring in my own version of the X Files and I can still appreciate the way her jeans hug that terrific ass of hers as she descends. As soon as her feet hit terra firma she does a swift recon before beckoning towards the salon door. Sailor-boy emerges, crouched, tense, gun in hand, eyes scanning the area. Close behind him is Sara, cowering, as if frightened by the sunlight. She makes to go around him but he stays her with a hand, cautious and wary.

Know how he feels. This was way too easy. I wanna get the fuck away from here as fast as I can because something about the entire set-up just ain't right. I feel like a dog unable to lock down and scratch a phantom itch.

"C'mon, move it," I rap out. I'm getting that familiar tingle inside my head and my paranoia is paying it unhealthy attention. I'm being watched. Has back-up arrived? I twist my body, trying to locate the source of my agitation. Whatever's got a line on me ain't inside the Marina. Don't seem to be coming from landward at all.

Jessie sucks in air. "Logan, is that blood?"

"Not mine," I assure her.

Suddenly she's in my arms, her relief flooding my nostrils. "Did you…?"

"No time. They brought friends." I swing her aside and jerk my thumb in a move yer fucking asses kinda way at the two on the boat. Can't sense anyone between us and the road. What's waiting for us outside the Marina I got no clue about. Only one way into or out of this dump by road and I can't rule out inbound bad guys. It's the best avenue of escape so it's a risk I gotta take. What choice do I have?

The sense of being watched is oppressive; menacing. Inside the animal stirs, goaded into malicious intent by my response to an as yet un specified threat. Can't risk the berserker escaping at the wrong moment so I beat the fucker into submission. Can't shake the feeling something bad's about to happen. I'm torn between hightailing it along the dock with Jessie and waiting for Sara and Ahab. Around me the world descends into a delirium of sight, sound and smell. Time and motion seems to slow to a crawl as my feral brain goes into overdrive. The progress of Sara and Sailor-boy across the deck feels like I'm watching a movie one frame at a time. I wanna scream at them to shift, get the hell off the fucking boat, but my mind's working way faster than my lips and my vocal chords.

Fear/threat response lends my senses an untoward super-hypersensitivity. Somewhere on the boat I hear the sound of death; a tiny pulse of energy, a burst of electrons triggering something that has no fucking right being attached to a boat in a busy marina. In that split second I realise Sara and Ahab are beyond my help; they're already as good as dead. Out of time and out of luck I take the one option left open to me. Save Jessie, preserve her life in any way I can.

With my own if I have to.

Another fucking Hail Mary play.

These odds are so extreme they're outta fucking sight, but I'll take what I can get.

"Logaaaaaaa…!"

The world is instantly transformed into fire and devastation. Aw crap! Gotta stop her drawing breath. Gotta stop her breathing in the expanding fireball and flash-frying her lungs. I clamp her head in my arms, protecting her ears; smothering her face in my hands to minimise damage, folding myself in on her, shielding her with my bulk. Go small! I need to go small, present a smaller surface area against the blast and what'll follow in its wake. If I could I'd absorb her, let her wear my body like a suit of armour but that ain't possible. I'm still curling around her when the shockwave hits, smashing into me with the force of a speeding semi truck, sweeping us both off our feet. I go rigid, forming a protective cage of flesh and metal around Jessie.

In moments of extreme crisis my mind has a habit of side-stepping real time and forming its own pocket reality. It's a neat trait that serves to apply the brakes on everything in motion around me. It allows me to think, to react. It's the source of my lighting quick reflexes, allowing me to orchestrate my movements, take action on specifics that occur faster than a normal human brain can recognise or evaluate. To an observer I move faster than anyone would believe possible. It's a survival mechanism par excellence. Downside is, enhanced hypersensitivity don't just cover sight, sound and smell, it also involves touch. It makes me highly susceptible to external stimulation and if that stimulation is pain then it has the potential to be excruciating unless I'm in a berserker rage where I'm past feeling anything except bloodlust. I don't got that option.

The fireball envelops me like a hellish tornado, burning away the flimsy material of my clothing charring my flesh. My head, my back, my arms are bathed in a heat that burns as deeply as acid and the stench of my own roasting flesh is forced into my nostrils even though I'm holding my breath with the tenacity of a drowning man. The pain rapidly exceeds my tolerance threshold and it's all I can do to stop myself screaming, stop myself blacking out from pure, undiluted agony.

Close proximity to the explosion costs me my hearing, making everything eerily silent, the noise piercing my head like two white hot, serrated blades. The blood trickling from my ruptured eardrums sizzles in the heat, par-boiling my ear canals. I fight to remain conscious coz I'm no fucking use to Jessie if I give in to the pain.

Dunno how but I'm dimly aware of the boat rocketing skywards, borne up on the expanding shockwave. And what goes up must inevitably come down as gravity reasserts control. Major fucking problem coz big ass chunks of it are heading my way. Having a mind capable of going into hyperdrive can suck like a real bitch.

My forward momentum is interrupted by a bone-shattering impact. Good job mine can't be broken. For a moment I think the boat has fallen on me but the pain dispersal is all wrong. It's gotta be the metal fence! My personal sense of time has become so distorted it feels like many seconds have passed rather than one or two. Beneath the onslaught of the blast and four hundred and fifty pounds of adamantium, flesh and bone, the fence crumples, the V shaped slats slicing open my tortured flesh like multiple flensing knives. In real time this takes a fraction of a second but I feel every cut, every uncompromising, jagged inch as I'm blasted across its shattered length. I try to go foetal, the vision of Jessie being flayed alive turning my blood to ice water. I can feel her body go rigid with fear and pain. She squirms in my grasp, burying her face in my shoulder and I can feel her scream. She's hurting, hurting bad and there's fuck all I can do about it other than hold her tight and will all the agony on myself.

Didn't think it possible but the agony multiplies as debris from the boat, from the ruined dock, sprays outwards in a deadly rain, peppering me, ripping more flesh from my exposed back and arms. I smash into another solid surface, this one more compromising; softer. Wooden. The air pressure around me changes, confined by the shed whose wall I've just been thrown through. The blast, hardly checked, blows out the shed's opposite wall like it was paper. My trajectory is low, hindered by the fence and now the shed wall. Unfortunately my body comes to a violent, crushing halt when I crash into what feels like a metal workbench. Forward motion halted I drop like a stone. It's only a coupla feet but it feels like a coupla miles. The floor's hard, rough; concrete.

I open my eyes cautiously and crank my head around to look above me. The roof's gone, and the air is dark with dust and high velocity debris, some of which is raining down on me. That includes what looks like a twisted, big ass lump of metal that might once have been part of an engine housing. It's too close and I barely have the time to kick Jessie away from me, thrusting her inert body beneath the protection of the workbench before my nemesis strikes.

I won't letcha die, Jessie. Ya can't leave me darlin'.

The smoking hot piece of slag hits with the force of a meteor, ploughing me into the concrete, crushing me like a bug. My head rings like the bell of doom, my brain turn to paste, smearing itself across the inside of my skull. The world whites out, searing agony burning away any conscious thought and then I'm falling into darkness. At that point I cease caring about anything.

**If you enjoyed this chapter please review. Reviews mean the cliffie gets resolved faster. :0)**


	6. Edge of Darkness

**Chapter 6: Edge of Darkness**

I ain't dead.

Excruciating agony insists I ain't dead.

Ain't I the lucky one.

C'n hardly breathe.

Suffocating.

Drowning.

In my own blood?

Lungs constricted.

Pulverised.

Liquidised.

On fire.

Air choking me.

Heavy.

Jagged.

Murderous.

Inescapable.

It's pitch black.

So open yer eyes asshole!

Uh...

Ain't happening.

Try harder!

Something brittle...

... snaps.

Dried blood?

Superglue?

Blink.

Blink again.

Hell's this?

Two pits of torment.

Filled with napalm.

Blinkblinkblink.

Nada.

Still pitch black.

Okay, so I'm blind.

Fuck!

Then it hits me.

The silence that is.

I strain to hear a noise.

Any noise.

C'mon, c'mon.

Whole damn world's full o' the stuff!

Just.

One.

Small.

Sound?

Nada.

Heartbeat erratic.

Pounding beneath my ribs.

Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-da-bum.

Feel it.

Can't hear it.

Okay, so I'm deaf too.

Double fuck!

Something in my mouth.

My tongue?

I think it's my tongue.

Don't feel right.

(What the fuck does?)

Feels like a ball of shrivelled leather.

Coated in ash.

Vague taste.

Sorta like charred blood.

Maybe.

Not doing too well here.

How 'bout smell?

Good old nose.

Never lets me down.

Test the air…

SNIFFFFFF

Shit!

That...freakin'...hurts.

Worse'n breathing red hot molasses laced with razors.

But no pay-off.

More nada!

Sick of fucking nada!

My sensory deprivation ain't absolute.

Ohhhh no!

One of 'em's functioning five by five.

Gotta wonder at the irony of it.

So many accusations.

Unfeeling bastard, they call me.

They'll never know.

At least pain anchors me.

Nailing me to the here and now.

Without it I'd go apeshit.

No fucking consolation though.

Cast adrift in a limbo of undiluted suffering.

Jeezus, I thought I'd faced everything pain could throw at me.

Torture.

Surgery sans anaesthesia.

Adamantium bonding.

Thought I'd learned how to transcend pain's paralysing effects.

Thought I could let it roll over me like mist.

What a crock!.

Fate's gone and pitched one of her sneaky little curveballs.

Don'tcha just fucking hate the bitch?

I'm her favourite agony toy.

Someone wanna tell me why?

Now what?

Cobwebs brushing my face?

Drifting into my mouth.

Clogging up my nose.

Has the texture of fine grit.

Can't turn my head.

Can't spit.

No moisture.

Peachy.

Fluid rattles in my throat.

A glob breaks loose.

Stimulates my choke response.

Try not to but I can't help it.

_HAAaaaackkkk._

Bad move.

Very bad move.

Spasms of pain rip through me.

Clawing me apart.

Spikes of cruelty thrusting into my brain.

Wanna scream; daren't.

Stomach turning cartwheels.

Fight the nausea.

Mortal excruciation subsides to mere tortured agony.

Paranoia wakes up; slugs me upside the head.

I'm in trouble.

Took ya long enough to work it out, genius!

Whaddaya gonna do about it?

Good question.

Got more.

Where am I?

How long've I been here?

More urgently:

Why can't I move?

Pain sears along abused nerves.

Collated from every extremity.

No outage on my spinal cord then.

I'll count that as a dubious plus.

Some bits hurt more than others.

Legs.

Gut.

Head.

My head.

So much pressure inside my skull.

Headache's crippling.

Brain's trying to burst out o' my ears.

Head trauma?

Explains the lack of senses.

Listen up, head. I'll count to three and then yer gonna move.

Right or left, I don't care.

Ready?

One, two three.

Turn!

Move dammit!

There ya go.

Ah crap!

Puke stimulus is kicking in again.

Bile scorching a path from my stomach to my mouth.

I just know this is gonna hurt.

Unless.

Swallow, damn you.

Mouth too dry.

Swallow!

Okay. Okay.

Crisis averted.

Can feel my healing factor working like crazy.

Cranking up my core temperature to inferno pitch.

Some mutation, huh?

So I'm told.

Yeah right.

Regenerating bits of me is a breeze.

Squeezing my innards back where they belong just tickles.

Get real will ya!

It!

Fucking!

Hurts!

Ah shit!

What's this?

What _is _this?

Ya lying here feeling sorry for yerself?

Get up ya psycho bastard.

Haul yer ass outta here before the motherfuckers who did this…

…there are motherfuckers?...

…do I got a motherfucker situation going on here?...

…yeah, I'm hurting bad...

...classic motherfucker hallmarks…

…return and finish the job!

MOVE dammit!

I got arms and legs somewhere in this wreck.

Gotta get 'em moving.

Uh…problem.

Pain's so bad I'm not sure of my orientation.

Sure ya do jerk-off!

Ya got stuff drifting into yer face.

Oh, yeah.

Gotta be lying on my back.

Thanks for the tip, gravity.

Now I got me a starting point.

Step two is me on my hands and knees.

I'll wing it from there.

Good plan.

Simple plan.

Whatcha gonna do about it?

Rolling sounds feasible.

How hard can rolling be?

Go for it!

Dammit!

The ground chuck calling itself my body ain't listenin'.

Command's gone out but got snarled up in some neurological gridlock.

C'mon.

You're a mutant with a healing factor.

How hard can it be?

Oh wait, something's flopping around.

My arms?

Yeah.

I got me some arms.

They feel heavy.

Like lead.

Encased in concrete.

That's on fire.

Heavy is good for ballast.

Ya can keep the fire.

Okay.

Concentrate.

Fling your right arm over your chest and use the momentum to roll.

What about my legs?

Don't worry.

Unless they've fallen off they should roll over with the rest of ya.

Nice.

Gotta psych myself up.

Gonna need a shitload of willpower to pull this off.

Tense the arm.

That's it.

Feel the muscles contracting.

Flex the tendons.

Envision it raising off the deck.

There ya go, Obiwan.

It's lifting.

Beginning its rising arc.

Now go with it.

I can do this.

I can…

…feel my belly rip open as something grates along the base of my ribcage.

Argh!

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Oh Jeezus fucking Ker-rist that hurts.

I flop back, defeated.

Darkness tugging at my consciousness.

My mind fogging and fraying.

NO!

Nonononononononono!

Not giving in to the darkness.

Passing out is not an option.

Focus.

Don't go moody on me, arm.

Got another mission for ya.

Exploration.

Maybe a little damage control on the side.

Up for it?

Sure ya are.

Off ya go.

Second time's easier.

Reaching out ain't.

Belly muscles contract.

Guts are being pulverized in a white hot vice of motion.

Ignore it.

Hand encounters resistance.

Touch.

Explore.

Hard.

Serrated.

Long.

End-out-of-reach long.

Conclusion?

Well, Einstein, here's the heads up.

Yer impaled on a fat ass lump of metal.

Revise plan.

Get unimpaled.

Wish I could see.

Jeezus!

Be careful what ya wish for.

Twin chisels of agony!

Drilling into my eyes.

Optic nerves regenerating.

Jagged bolts of white light searing the blackness.

Inside my head.

Flashes subside to fuzzy, visual white noise.

Vague patches of light and dark.

Hazy outlines forming and breaking up.

Re-forming.

Eyes feel raw; lacerated; gritty.

And wet.

Tear response bathing my eyes.

A soothing balm.

I blink.

Vision improves.

Blurry.

Chaos of amorphous shapes and shadows.

Blink again.

Blur.

And again.

Blur.

And again.

Fucking A!

Smoke.

A black pall hanging in the air.

Drifting aimlessly.

Particulates raining down.

Dust.

Ash.

Soot.

Flakes of whatever.

Settling on me.

I remember now.

An explosion.

Fallout is still falling.

Figure that kinda answers the how long question.

Talking minutes at most.

Feels more like forever.

Focus!

I can see it now.

An ugly, four foot shank of twisted, blackened steel.

Lodged where my left kidney and a whole heap of alimentary tract oughta be.

Pinning me to the concrete floor.

Blood seeps around the metal.

Arterial red.

Wet and glistening.

Pumping out to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

Pooling its heat across my belly and dribbling down my side.

Can't heal.

Can't move.

Shank's gotta go.

Beyond it is a greater, boxy chunk the size of a petrol pump.

Some sorta machine housing maybe?

Pinning my legs.

Can't move 'em.

Look around; take stock of my situation.

A rough chunk of concrete close to my head.

Blood-spattered.

Size of a truck transmission.

No wonder I got a fucking headache.

The shank, moron!

Sucker went through at an oblique angle.

Gotta cut it short and twist myself free.

'S gonna hurt like hell.

A walk in the park.

Okay, left hand, you're up.

Make like a limpet and grip that shank.

Don't want the sucker causing collateral damage when it's cut free.

I pop my right index claw.

Brief stab of pain is lost in the greater agony of sawing.

Shank quivers.

Tears flesh and gut with every stroke.

Dark shadows close in.

Clouding my mind with seductive oblivion.

Sucking away my strength.

Like a damn vampire.

Yer not having me, ya sonuvabitch.

Not yet.

Focus.

Hands and arms in bad shape.

Deep lacerations and burns.

Deepest gashes reveal pale metal.

Strips of flesh and clothing hang in charred tatters.

Patches of shirt fused to my arms.

Baked on hard like hellish organic Kevlar.

Skin cracks and splits as I work, oozing plasma and blood.

Doesn't stop me.

Adamantium claw does what adamantium claw does.

The shank topples free.

Falls wide as my left arm spins it away.

Can feel the tremors.

As it hits the ground.

Hope no one hears it.

C'n see the stub rising from my mangled flesh.

Slick with fresh blood.

Some fucking lubricant, huh?

I rest.

Need vital moments

Fight the dizziness.

Gather my strength.

For what comes next.

Argh!

Shit!

Pain stabs into my head.

From the left.

From the right.

Aural nerves're regenerating.

C'n hear faint whistles and crackles.

Eardrums are mending.

Voices intrude.

Remote.

Distorted.

Muffled like I'm underwater.

Got a hazy sense of distance and direction.

No immediate danger.

It's the ones ya don't hear that getcha.

I check out the wreckage crushing my legs.

Size of an elephant's ass.

Twice as ugly.

Heavy as hell.

I can use heavy.

An effective brace.

Leverage to jack-knife myself free of the shank.

'S gonna hurt no matter what so fuck the psych-up.

Here goes.

Groin and arm muscles tensed.

Arms at my side, folded akimbo.

Now!

Drag elbows towards my shoulders.

Lever my head and shoulders off the ground.

Something tears.

Peels away.

Fused to the ground.

Skin.

My back, my shoulders are one raw, open wound.

Ignore the pain.

Ignore the shadows.

Sitting half upright now.

Braced on shaking, straining arms.

Thrust forwards and sideways.

Twisting to the left.

Wrenching myself free.

Ohmigodohmigodohmigod!

Dammit to fucking hell!

Can't stand much more o' this.

Pain's too much.

Too fucking much.

Hot tears squeeze from my eyes;

Trickle down my face.

Ain't the only thing trickling.

Stream of blood.

Soaking ragged clothing, spilling on the floor.

I lie on my side.

Shaking.

Panting.

Clutching my belly.

Fighting the encroaching darkness.

That's when I smell her.

Jessie.

Oh shit, Jessie!

Overwhelming guilt shoves aside the darkness.

Pumps me full of adrenaline to sideline the agony.

Floods me with chemical urgency.

Before I know it my legs are free.

I'm on my hands and knees.

Frantically parsing her scent from the smoke laden air.

She's hurt.

Bleeding.

C'n smell scorched clothing, skin and hair.

She's there.

Wedged beneath a buckled lump of metal.

Her back to me, face hidden.

I remember now.

Falling debris.

A sturdy workbench bolted to the concrete.

Jessie sized gap beneath it.

An act of desperation.

A timely shove using hands and feet.

As chunks of death fell to earth.

It paid off coz she's alive, still breathing.

I crawl closer.

Sharp objects cut into raw flesh.

Hardly feel 'em.

I'm there, brushing aside her frazzled hair.

Pressing my finger to her throat.

Checking her pulse.

It's strong and steady.

Racing like a Derby winner.

The distressed gasp of her breathing ain't good.

Did her lungs get fried or punctured?

Did she inhale debris and smoke?

Resting my head on her back I listen.

Lung sounds are normal but she's breathing shallow.

Like it hurts.

All the usual swishing, throbbing and gurgling sounds are there.

Nothing outta place so maybe no internal bleeding.

Internal bruising?

Busted rib maybe?

Busted rib'll complicate matters.

Gotta go easy moving her.

Accidentally puncturing a lung ain't somewhere I wanna go.

Dragging her into the open costs me.

Hope it ain't cost her more.

Manoeuvring her onto her back is easier.

Her beautiful face is grimy.

Marred by bruises and abrasions.

No burns, thank God.

But there's blood.

Above her right temple.

Matting her hair.

Superficial injury or skull fracture?

Can't tell.

Nerve endings in my fingers're too damaged to probe for softness.

Don't wanna risk collateral damage.

'Sides, time ain't on my side.

"Jessie, can you hear me, baby?"

Is that strangled croak me?

I try to moisten my mouth, my throat.

Saliva won't come.

I lick the blood from my fingers.

Roll it around my tongue and swallow.

Better but not by much.

At least the choke stimulus quits.

Jessie lies there, the skin beneath the dirt pale and clammy.

I shake her.

Pinch undamaged cheek flesh.

She ain't waking up.

Panic sets in.

There're bad guys out there.

Gotta get you outta here, girl.

My palsied hands stroke her face.

C'mon, darlin'.

Gimme a sign will ya?

Nothing. She's out cold.

Tugging her closer I cradle her in my arms.

C'mon, baby.

"Uhhhhhhhhh…"

Dammit I'm hurting her.

"I'm sorry," I wheeze. "Try'n hold on for me will ya?"

Please?

Urgency and desperation.

Fresh adrenalin hit.

Pulse soars.

Heart lurches.

Protesting.

Irregular

Lungs too damaged.

Inadequate oh two.

Muscles impaired.

Torn to heck.

Starved.

Cramping.

'M breathless.

Head spinning.

Rising fever.

Darkness closing in.

NO!!!!!

Ain't happening!

Ain't quitting!

Gotta get in the wind.

Take Jessie and get the fuck outta here.

_Focus!_

I'm on my knees.

Can't crawl outta here.

Find my feet.

The work bench'll help.

Grab a hold.

Make those legs piston me upright.

No wait.

Sit Jessie up.

Prop her against the bench.

Easier to lift her.

God, she's heavy.

"Urrrhhhhhrrrnnn."

Shhhh, shhhh.

I'm sorry.

Quiet now.

There ya go, darlin'.

Her head lolls onto her shoulder, hair falling across her face.

And now here I go.

Muscles a-straining and a-cracking.

Vision's greying out.

Legs're weak.

Strength's failing.

Get up ya bastard.

She needs ya.

Get the fuck up!

Get on yer damned feet.

Get her the fuck outta here.

Do it!

Touch and go.

But I make it.

Costs me.

Feel dizzy and sick.

Blood gushes from the hole in my belly.

Spatters on the floor.

Stomach contents join it.

I close my eyes and wait for the world to quit carouselling.

That's better.

Now for the hard part.

Only way to get her out is carry her out.

To do that I gotta drag Jessie to her feet.

To do that I gotta bend or squat some.

To do that I gotta put me through a world of hurt.

How do I do this?

And not pass out?

Fireman's lift is outta the question.

Risk of collateral damage too great.

Don't have the strength anyhow.

Only one other way.

Piece o' cake.

Don't let me down legs.

I'm depending on ya both.

Gonna slide my left flank a little ways down the bench and yer gonna bend for me, okay?

Okay.

I'm sliding.

Holding on to the bench.

Like a drowning man.

Legs're bending.

Pain explodes in my gut.

Don't breathe. Don't breathe.

It'll hurt even more.

Snake my arm across her chest, tuck my hand in her armpit and pull.

'Kay, darlin', I gotcha.

Up.

You.

Come!

Aaaaaaahhhhhhggggggoddddddddd!

Even the nausea runs away and hides.

She sags in my grip.

A dead weight.

Limp as a busted balloon.

Right arm's in better shape than my left one.

It'll take her upper body weight easier.

It'd better.

Manoeuvring her into position I support her shoulders.

So far, so good.

Hook my left arm under her knees just so.

That's it.

That's it.

Ignore the pain.

'S just pain.

Nothing much really.

Swing her legs off the ground.

Use the momentum to distribute her weight more evenly.

My movements are rough, clumsy.

Each jolt squeezes a moan from her lips.

Each jolt squeezes fresh agony from me.

Can't be helped.

Finally she's gathered in my arms, head resting against my shoulder.

A win for the home team.

Ain't perfect but it'll hafta do.

Now shift yer butt!

Floor's covered with debris.

Can't risk stumbling.

Might not get up again.

I totter and then lurch as my left foot swings forward.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Easy does it.

Picking my way through the shattered remains of the shed.

Out into the open.

Out into a sea of devastation.

Shitload of oily black smoke drifting around.

It stings sensitive membranes.

Moisture trickles into my eyes. Blurs my vision.

Blood?

Sweat?

Tears?

Can't tell.

Doesn't matter.

Can't wipe it away.

Blink.

Blinkblinkblinkblink.

Vision's still swimming.

Best I can do.

For now.

Ah, fuck it.

Focus.

Escape.

Get.

To,

The.

Jeep.

Ambush?

Fucking hope not.

C'n barely think so far ahead.

Worry about it later.

Senses are back online.

No more garbled voices.

C'n hear screams.

Yells.

Sobs.

The sounds of terror; outrage; grief.

_Pain._

People running.

_Piercing__ me soul deep._

Some shouting orders.

_A malicious onslaught_

Others stand and stare.

_Of agony._

Pale and slack jawed.

_So weak._

Rooted to the spot.

_Vulnerable._

Shocked into silence.

_Exposed._

Obliteration all around.

_Move!_

Bits of boat.

_Move yer ass!_

Bits of marina.

_Give up..._

Bits of people.

_an' yer dead._

The stench is vile.

_Dead._

Death.

Blood.

Seared flesh.

Burning fuel.

Melted plastic.

Scorched wood and fibreglass.

Choking stink of nitramines and plasticiser.

From an overkill of C4.

Military grade HE.

Why a bomb?

Why so big?

Like they didn't fucking care.

Don't make any sense.

Christ, Jessie's heavy.

I stagger on.

Unnoticed.

Through the smoke and the stink.

All eyes are on ground zero.

On the body parts and casualties and damage.

Not the charcoal grilled guy with the girl in his arms.

Hope it stays that way.

Vision's dimming.

Becoming a tunnel of grey.

Jeep recedes.

Like I'm falling away from it.

NO!

Not now!

Keep walking.

Concentrate on the pain.

On moving my feet.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Weaving around chunks of debris.

Fanned out in a blast pattern.

Oh God, don't let me fall.

Don't let me drop her.

Shit, I'm praying.

How fucking desperate is that?

Made it!

Exhausted, panting, I sag against the Jeep.

Arms trembling beneath their precious burden.

No time to rest.

No!

No time!

Someone triggered that C4.

Same someone might have a clip of seven point six two of you're fucked...

...aimed at Jessie 'n' me...

...to finish what they started.

Lower Jessie's legs to the ground.

Brace her against the Jeep with my body.

Hold her in place so she don't fall.

Where're the fucking keys?

Okay, got 'em.

Press remote locking button.

Nothing.

Fuck!

Thing musta got toasted.

Old fashioned way then.

Key looks warped.

But slides into the lock.

Twist.

_Klok_.

Central locking disengages.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

Slide Jessie sideways.

Wrench open rear door.

Lay her on the seat.

Feed her body into the Jeep.

Sacrificing gentleness for expediency.

"Urrrrrrrrrgh."

"I'm sorry, darlin'."

Back's itching.

With sweat.

With blood.

With paranoia.

With anticipation.

Of extreme prejudice.

Smoke still obscuring everything.

Good!

I press the door shut.

Don't wanna attract attention.

Takes all I have.

To climb into the driver's seat.

I wanna collapse.

Rest my head on the steering wheel.

'Til the pain subsides.

'Til the dizziness subsides.

Don't got that luxury.

Ram the key into the ignition.

Turn it.

Engine fires to life.

'Bout the same time I realise...

...the Jeep might've been booby-trapped.

Like the boat.

They had enough time.

Stupid.

You stupid fucking idiot!

Lucky this time.

More'n ya deserve to be.

Must be fucking losing it.

Slam the Jeep into reverse.

Spin the wheel.

Guts explode with renewed agony.

Reaches a new height of suffering.

Lungs feel full of wet cement.

Breathing's like suffocating.

Three point turn.

Forward gear.

Floor the pedal.

Jeep surges forwards.

Through the gate.

Out onto Piney Narrows Road.

Heading towards Eighteen. Towards Fifty and the Bay Bridge.

One road in and out of this dump.

Entire area's a trap.

A roadblock.

Or opposition zeroing in on the marina.

Means I'm fucked.

Seat feels like it's full of rocks.

Digging into the base of my spine.

Pressing into the raw and bleeding mess passing for skin.

Reaching to ease the discomfort I find some useful hardware.

The Glock and the forty-five.

I'd forgotten about 'em.

Nothing like a timely reminder even if it was a fucking pain.

I dump 'em on the passenger seat.

Good thing the heat of explosion didn't ignite the gunpowder.

Coulda ended up assless.

Like I need more fucking grief.

Back on Eighteen.

No sign of pursuit or interception.

Not on the road.

Not in the sky.

Guess the motherfuckers ain't realised they're two corpses short.

Darkness closes in on me.

Dims my sight.

Stretches consciousness to breaking point.

Separates me from reality.

Road's a blur.

Arms feel heavy.

Grip's slackening.

Takes all I have to keep my eyes open.

Can't think.

Can't...

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

What the...?

Fuck!

I've drifted into the opposite lane.

Spin the wheel.

Jeep responds roughly.

Jerking me to alertness.

Forcing the Jeep into the right lane.

Forcing a groan from Jessie.

Stay awake dickwad!

Survive a bomb to get smashed up in a head-on?

I don't think so.

Focus!

Just drive.

Just fucking drive.

Time crawls by.

Like the traffic.

Forced to slow the pace on Fifty.

Brain wants to know.

Where the fuck'm I going?

Can't take Jessie to an ER.

Be like sending up a flare.

_Here we are!_

_Come finish what ya started._

No way're they getting Jessie.

No way they gonna take out a hospital in the attempt.

No ER.

Jessie needs a doctor.

Know just the guy.

Jessie's got him on speed dial.

Cell's in my pocket.

Shit!

It got slagged!

Fucking thing's useless.

Toss it onto the passenger seat.

Okay.

Plan B.

Think!

Yeah.

A headache shared is a headache doubled.

Give Charlie a call.

On my cell.

In the glove box.

Problem is...

Distance between me and the glove box.

Is a whole yard o' pain.

And fresh misery.

Can't be helped.

Twist.

Reach out.

Gut wound gapes open.

Blood flows.

Catch a glimpse of myself.

In the rear view mirror.

Shit!

'Zat lump of chopped and seared liver my face?

Looks as bad as I feel.

Fucking miracle Jessie came through it.

As well as she did.

Healing factor revs up.

C'n feel it.

Burning.

Fixing.

Gluing me back together.

Slow though.

Way too slow.

Thanks a fucking bunch Snarkster!

The phone, moron.

Fingers stretch.

Scabs crack.

Break apart

Wounds bleed.

As I reach out.

Release the catch.

Glove box falls open.

Feel for the phone.

Can't find it.

Dammit!

Approaching Bay Bridge.

Traffic slows.

Halts.

Lean further across the passenger seat.

Scrabbling for the phone.

CD cases.

Don't want 'em.

Sweep 'em outta there.

Some clatter to the foot well.

Others bounce on the seat.

Gotcha, ya bastard.

Fingers claw around my prize.

Effort costs me.

Panting with pain.

With exertion.

Lungs crackle with fluid.

Blood in my mouth.

Gotta get upright.

Steering wheel helps.

Traffic's moving.

Widening the gap between me

And the car in front.

BEEEEEEP!

Yeah, yeah.

Impatient ass-wipe.

Gimme a fucking break will ya?

Or I'll give ya a vehicular enema.

Or at least an ass kicking.

Moving forward now.

Wrestling with steering wheel.

While trying to fast dial.

Fingers raw.

Swollen.

Dead sticks.

There ya go.

Press it to the withered and oozing flap of gristle.

That's gonna be a new ear.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

C'mon Cue-ball. Pick up why won'tcha?

Ringing some more.

Useless piece of fucking junk!

Click!

"Good afternoon, Logan. Can I assume...?"

Shutthefuckup!

"No. Need help!"

Voice ragged.

Torn from a throat scoured with razor wire.

"You have been injured."

On the ball.

Concerned voice.

Not a question.

"I'll heal. Jessie..."

"Jessica has been injured? What happened? Is her condition serious?"

"Explosion. Head wound. Busted rib maybe, Dunno how bad. Unconscious."

Still breathing.

"Good Lord! The Blackbird is flight-ready. I'm sending Moira in with a team."

Y'ain't close enough.

"No. Need...Philip Commeau. Where?"

"I will locate him for you. Stand by."

"Ch..._koff_..."

Bitter.

Coppery taste.

Hacking up blood.

Shit!

That's all I need.

Warn him.

"Charlie. 'M comin' in hot. No ER."

Don't want the bastards tracking us down.

Don't want any more fucking victims.

"Got that? No ER!"

"I understand. Stand by."

That's it?

No argument?

No debate?

Good on ya, Cue-ball.

Hope for ya yet.

Static.

Lost connection?

C'm on.

Crawling across Bay Bridge.

Traffic snarled up.

Hemming me in.

Caught in a trap.

C'm _on_, Xavier.

What's the damn hold up?

"Logan?"

Finally!

"Yeah."

"I require your current location."

What?

Hell ya want that for?

"Why?"

"Logan, this is important."

"On Fifty. Bay Bridge."

"Thank you."

Static.

Hell's he doing?

"Please switch on your Satellite Navigation."

"Kay."

Reach for the power switch.

Press it.

Screen blinks to life.

"I am remote programming your system to guide you to Doctor Commeau's private office. He has agreed to meet you there. Needless to say he is not happy with this situation. He is concerned Jessica may have sustained blast injuries, angry you appear to be risking her life. I admit to being somewhat apprehensive myself."

Fuck 'im.

Fuck you.

Know what'm doing.

I hope.

"Breaking news on CNN is reporting an explosion in a marina. A number of deaths have been confirmed. More are suspected."

Bad news.

Death.

Spreads faster'n heck.

"Yeah."

If 'm lucky me and Jessie are still listed as suspected.

"There is premature speculation about the explosion being deliberate. Perhaps the result of a terrorist attack."

Odd.

No one tagged the word "mutant" to it yet?

How come?

Slow on the uptake?

Harris not woken up yet?

(Gonna slice his fucking head clean off...

...for what his bastard buddies did!)

Gotta find 'im first.

Find _them_.

Make the cunts pay.

End of bridge.

Made the Western Shore.

Use electronic gates.

Got a toll tag.

No booth clerk...

...siccing cops on my ass...

...fer scaring him shitless.

New face job turns _my_ stomach.

Don't wanna inflict it on anyone else.

"Logan, Jessica's wellbeing cannot be left to chance. Whilst Doctor Commeau is already in the field, so to speak, I consider it a necessary precaution to treat the situation as a medevac emergency. Moira is talking to Doctor Commeau as we speak. She will be joining you within an hour, probably less. As will Storm and Colossus."

That's nice.

The B Team.

Told ya I'm coming in hot and ya give me:

Doctor Death.

The Fog Queen.

An untrained kid.

Big mother for sure.

But untrained.

Yer optimism...

...'S gonna be the death of us all, Charlie.

How come no Major Jerkwad?

That thousand yard kick-ass stare.

Has its uses.

"Please leave this link open. Storm will patch you in the Blackbird's com-unit enabling Moira to maintain a link with you en route. She will need a status report so that Doctor Commeau can be kept apprised of Jessica's condition."

What the fuck do I know about her condition?

Ain't no doctor.

She's breathing.

She's whole.

She ain't bleeding out.

Crack on her head.

Can't wake her up.

'S all I know.

"Logan?"

What?

"Logan, are you all right?"

Heard ya the first time.

Hurts to talk.

"Logan!"

Jeezus!

"What?"

Relief?

"Be careful."

"Yeah."

Like I'd forget?

Drop the cell into my lap.

Too tired to do anything else.

-o0o-

"In five hundred yards turn left."

Like I can't read the screen map.

Electronic bitch's voice is driving me nuts.

Road's clear.

Accelerate.

"In one hundred yards turn left."

Hells jingling frigging bells!

Idiot box talks like a techno-slut.

Who designed this thing?

A perverted retard?

"Turn left."

Shut the hell up already!

"Logan?"

Moira.

Talking to my crotch.

That's funny.

Shame the Kentucky Fried Canuck.

Daren't laugh.

"The tracker says yeh're a whisker away from yer objective. Yeh need tae look out for a white, three storey building with a black door tae yer right. Turn intae the drive and follow it tae the rear car park. Doctor Commeau is waiting on yeh and the lassie. Did yeh get that?"

Running on empty.

Darkness pressing in on me.

Need both hands on the wheel.

"Kay."

Did that strangled croak carry?

"We'll be with yeh, shortly. ETA fifteen minutes minus. Over and out."

Guess so.

Fifteen minutes.

Give or take.

Long time.

Long, long time.

If I'm being tracked...

"You have reached your destination."

Piss off.

When I feel better.

Gonna pound the fucking thing flat.

White paint.

Black door.

Large drive.

On the right.

This is it.

Turn.

Accelerate.

Get the fuck outta sight.

Commeau's there.

Pacing.

Face in a cramp.

Like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

There's a gurney close by.

I pull up.

Rear door's yanked open.

Before I stop rolling.

He's leaning over Jessie.

Checking her out.

Giving off anger and fear.

Chewing me out.

"You maniac! Who the hell do you think you are? If my sister's life has been jeopardised by your cloak and dagger bullshit I'll see your feral ass, and that of your precious school, sued to kingdom come."

Too tuckered out to reply.

Don't give a toss anyway.

C'n take a flying fuck for all I care.

Sue my ass.

See if I give a shit.

Jeep musta been missed by now.

Bombers know at least one of us...

...is still alive.

Hafta stay awake.

Daren't close my eyes.

All I can do.

Right now.

Is slump in my seat.

And bleed.

Gather what little energy I got left.

No way I c'n let the coma take me.

'Til the cavalry arrives.

Maybe not even then.

Thanks to Charlie.

Much as I hate to admit it.

Rather One-eye headed up the mission.

'Sides.

Might've been amusing.

Seeing him and Commeau.

In a clenching competition.

Maybe next time.

Jeep rocks with movement.

Clothes rustle.

Breath rasps

As Asshole works his mojo.

Seconds stretch into an age.

"Thank God! You're damned lucky she doesn't have any life threatening injuries. No thanks to you."

Engine's still running.

Shut it off.

He'll need help.

Getting her on the gurney.

Open door.

Twist my body.

Uhhhhhhnn...

Fuck!

Ease myself out.

Something clatters to the tarmac.

Skitters beneath car.

Cell phone.

Too bad.

Hafta stay there.

I follow it down.

I'll stay down.

Dizziness takes me.

Hanging onto the door.

For dear life.

Panting.

Hurting.

Exhausted.

Sick.

Burning up.

"Help me get her onto the gurney."

A demand.

One I need to obey.

Even coming from him.

Focus.

Jessie needs me.

Asshole shuffles backwards.

Gently tugging Jessie with him.

He hits his head.

Hard.

"Shit!"

Raises up, rubbing the back of his skull.

"What the hell are you waiting for? Give me a...Mary, mother of God!"

Ain't got one o' those.

Hell would_ I_ do with it?

"Jesus, man. Those injuries. I...I don't have the facilities to treat those burns."

"'M fine. Healing factor."

"You need help."

He stands there.

White faced.

Looking at me.

Expression in his eyes screams _triage_.

"Later. Get her...inside."

He hesitates.

Ain't he listening?

"NOW!"

That costs me.

_Haaaackkk_

Something breaks loose.

Inside.

I spit red.

He moves.

Towards me!

"No!"

I indicate Jessie.

"Her!"

"Okay, I'll get her inside and then come back for you."

He reaches for the gurney.

Drags it closer.

Yeah, you do that, bub.

Over my rotting corpse.

Make my way along the Jeep.

To Jessie.

Gotta move ya.

Just one more time, baby.

Kay?

Gurney rattles over the tarmac.

"Logan, what are you doing? I've got this."

You got nothing, asshole.

Glare at him.

Full on death stare.

"You've brought her this far, God only knows how. You can barely stand. Do you want to risk dropping her now?"

Ain't gonna drop her.

"I can do this."

I _will _do this.

Try'n stop me and I'll kick yer head in.

He stares at me.

Eyes searching.

Determined.

Puzzled.

Relenting.

"No. _We_ can do this."

Fair enough.

So we do.

I take her legs.

Give support.

Ease her out.

While he takes her upper body weight.

Seconds later she's on the gurney.

He straps her down.

C'n hear a chopper approaching.

From the east.

Some ways off yet.

Search the skies.

Is it them?

"Move it!"

He blinks.

Looks at me like I've gone crazy.

Maybe I have.

"Get her undercover. Now!"

"What is your fucking problem? What's going on?"

Crane my head.

Search the sky.

"Hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Chopper getting closer.

"That."

"What the hell are you talking about? What's wrong with you?"

"Sara dead. Sailor boy dead. Almost got Jessie."

"What?"

"Boat..."

What the fuck was its name?

"...Arcturus blown to hell. Bomb."

He ain't taking this on board.

Shock tactics.

"They find her, they'll kill her."

They'll try.

Last thing they'll ever do.

He moves.

Quicker'n I give him credit for.

In the wrong direction.

Fingers brush the back of my hand.

"Shit!"

Stricken expression.

Fear overload.

Spike of adrenalin.

He's got the message.

He backs off.

"I'll hide the Jeep. Keep watch."

He nods.

Turns away.

Gurney rattles across the tarmac.

Bearing its patient undercover.

I gaze about me.

Trees lining the car park.

Big mothers.

'll hide stuff from aerial surveillance.

Crawl back into the Jeep.

Fire up the engine.

Head for a corner where an oak grows.

Large boughs.

Casting it's shade.

Chopper's almost on top of me.

Engine screaming.

Rotors slapping air.

Then it's gone.

Not deviating from its course.

False alarm?

Hope so.

Need to head inside.

Stay close to Jessie.

'Case the bad guys drop by.

And pay their disrespects.

If I last that long.

All that's carrying me.

Keeping me upright and mobile.

Is adrenaline.

And a growing sense of pain induced rage.

Animal's howling inside my head.

Wants to claw its way out.

Darkness ebbs and flows.

Relentless.

Tempting.

Give in to either and I'm fucked.

We're all fucked.

Grab the guns.

If I can keep the fuckers at a distance.

I might walk away from this.

Slide outta the Jeep.

Like a cripple.

Stagger back across the car park.

Through the door.

Into a brightly lit corridor.

So many doors.

All closed.

Jessie's scent hangs heavy.

So does aftershave.

Antiseptic.

Blood.

Burnt cotton.

C'n hear Commeau talking.

"I've got you now, Jay. You're safe."

Hear him grabbing stuff.

Hear packages breaking open.

Stuff rattling.

Ahead of me.

Somewhere beyond the end of the corridor.

Hold it, asshole.

Lock the fucking door.

Brace it shut.

No sense making it easy.

Need a chair.

Open first door.

There's one.

Drag it out.

Wedge it beneath the handle.

Good enough.

Gimme time.

Gimme warning.

If someone smashes their way in.

Let's hope it ain't a two pronged assault if they do.

Follow the noise.

Follow the scent.

Along the corridor.

Through a set of swinging doors.

Into a what...?

Reception area?

Front of building.

Lotta windows.

Big windows.

And a black painted door.

Beyond is the street.

C'n hear cars and people.

Passing by.

Not coming here.

Open door.

Sign on it.

_Examination Room 1_

C'n hear activity.

Smell 'em both.

Peer into room.

Lots cupboards.

A washbasin.

Jessie still on the gurney.

Commeau bent over her.

Cleaning up her head wound.

She stirs.

Breathing quickens.

Comes in short gasps.

"Unnnh! Oh, God, my head. My chest. What happened? Phil?"

Jessie.

Conscious.

I duck away.

Don't want her seeing me.

Not 'til I heal up some.

"You're all right, Jay. There was an accident but you're safe now."

Commeau.

Soft voice.

Soothing his patient.

Accident?

Wasn't no fucking accident.

"Accident?"

Jessie echoes me.

Voice slurred.

She sounds tired.

Hurting.

"Where's Logan?"

"Close by. There was something he needed to do."

Well I'm convinced. Not.

"You're not telling me everything. I can see it in your face."

Neither's Jessie.

"Calm down. He's here. Believe me."

Hysterical edge to her voice.

"No. Why isn't he here with me? What's wrong? What's happened to him?"

"He got a little...banged up. He's alive. He brought you here."

Asshole's bedside manner ain't working.

She's getting agitated.

"I remember a big noise. Logan wrapping himself around me. Smothering me."

"It's over now, Jay. You're safe."

"Safe? Safe from what?"

Just tell her, asshole.

Before she pops yer blood-pressure cuff.

"We were with Sara. At the boat. David was there."

No need.

'S coming back by itself.

Atta girl.

"David? Why? What the hell did he want?"

"Where are they?"

Suspicious.

Nervous.

She demands to know.

"I don't know."

The stink of realisation wafts from the examination room.

"Oh shit. The boat. An explosion. They were on board..."

Spike of grief.

"_Sara!_"

Her cry tears from her.

And is choked off.

Coughing.

Groans of pain.

"Jay, I don't know what's happened to them. I'll find out, I promise, but right now this isn't helping you. You've suffered a concussion and you have two cracked ribs. You need to calm down. Jay!"

"I need to find her. Find David. Logan!"

C'n hear heals scooting on vinyl.

"Jay, no!"

She's trying to sit up.

"Oh! Oh no..."

She's throwing up.

Bile stinks up the place.

She oughta know better.

Than to go diving around.

With a concussion.

"Jay, I'm sorry but you've left me no choice."

No choice?

What the fuck does that mean.

"Phil, no!"

"It's for the best."

She moans.

"That's it. Just give into it."

What the fuck has he done to her?

"Commeau!"

Slam the door open.

He jumps.

Shocked.

She's on her back.

Struggling.

Feeble.

Eyes half closed.

Mumbling my name over and over.

"What did ya do, bub?"

"Sedated her. Before she punctured a lung."

Kay.

I can relate to that.

Don't mean I like it though.

I nod.

Back off.

I need to sit down.

Just for a minute.

Stay alert.

Watch.

Where I can't be watched myself.

Over there.

Corner window.

Close the blinds.

C'n see all approaches into the room.

Not ideal.

But it'll hafta do.

Drop into chair.

Drop the guns in my lap.

Trying not to think about...

...why my back's sticking to the seat.

All I can hear.

Is Commeau.

And street noise.

All I can do.

Is watch.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Seconds extending to minutes.

Minutes stretching to eternity.

Darkness is encroaching.

Taking me by inches.

Like a snake swallowing prey.

My legs.

My arms.

Too heavy to lift.

C'n feel it.

The numbness.

Travelling upwards.

Dragging me.

To a place.

I don't wanna be.

Not now.

Not yet.

Not safe.

Car pulls into the drive.

Stops.

Doors open.

Slam shut.

Footsteps approaching.

Alert now.

Adrenaline rush...

...does fuck all.

Damn!

I'm a sitting duck.

Familiar voices.

Speaking quietly.

I close my eyes.

Relieved.

Cavalry's arrived.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Gotta let 'em in.

Huh?

Can't move.

C'mon ya dumb Canuck.

Move yer sorry ass.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Logan, it is me, Ororo. Moira and Piotr are with me. Please let us in."

'M trying.

"Logan? Can you hear me? Please open the door."

Hey, 'Ro.

Love to, darlin'.

Can't.

Nothing's working y'see.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Logan? Doctor Commeau? Are you there?"

"Is that someone at the door? I can't leave Jessica right now."

Commeau sounds scared.

"No worries. They're friends."

"Piotr..."

'Ro again.

"...I do not wish to create a scene breaking into the building in full view of the street. Go to the rear and see if you can gain access."

"Da."

Ah, fuck.

Hope Commeau's insured.

Footsteps receding.

Heavy.

Determined.

Moments later sound of wood splintering.

Building rocks.

As the kid makes short work of the door.

"What the hell was that?"

Commeau.

He rushes into the reception area.

Fingers of his latex gloves bloody.

A wild look in his eye.

"'S nothing."

"That didn't sound like nothing."

"'S under control. Jessie needs ya."

He looks me over.

Frowns.

Nods.

Disappears from sight.

In the corridor doors are flung open.

The kid checking?

Or just searching?

He's fast.

Swing doors swing open cautiously.

Checking.

Not dumb then.

"'M here, kid."

Barely a whisper.

He hears it though.

"Logan?"

He sees me.

"Boizhe Moi!"

Yours maybe.

Sure as hell ain't mine.

Bastard's permanently out to lunch.

Far as I'm concerned.

Kid's heading my way.

"Let 'em in."

"Da."

No hesitation.

Immediate change of course.

Series of clicks as he unlatches the door.

He stands back.

Light spills through.

As do 'Ro and Moira.

He shuts the door.

Latch locks instantly.

"Kid."

Ruskie cranes his head in my direction.

"Secure the room."

"Yes sir."

Like a good soldier he takes up position at the swing doors.

Moira and 'Ro both gasp.

Don't give 'em time.

To state the fucking obvious.

"Ro. Your car. How many?"

She catches on quick.

"Enough room for seven passengers."

More'n enough.

"Can't stay here."

"Of course. I am evacuating both you and Jessica back to Westchester."

I don't think so.

"Jessie. Not me."

White eyebrows arch.

"I don't understand."

"There's shit I need to deal with. Leads I gotta follow."

"Logan, what nonsense is this?"

Ah, Moira.

Yer little gooder heart.

Might be in the right place.

How about yer brain?

She moves in.

Aluminium case in hand.

She reaches out.

I flinch away.

"Look at yeh, laddie. Yeh're a mess!"

She's at my side.

Her hands...everywhere.

Persistent.

Examining.

"Let me give yeh something tae ease the pain."

She's opening her case.

Stupid cow!

You forgot so soon?

"NO!"

"Och, for the love of Mike! Yeh gonnae tell me yeh're nae hurting?"

"No.

Fucking.

Drugs!"

"Logan, why do yeh do this tae yehself?"

"Do...what?"

"Take the concept of hard man and test it to the point of no return."

Is that what you think this is?

An exercise is machismo, masochistic bullshit?

Woman, you got no fucking idea!

"No...DRUGS!"

What will it take...

...to hammer the message home?

_SNICKT_

Crap.

Animal got away from me.

Didn't mean to do that.

"Logan, no!"

'Ro snaps out the words.

Voice harsh.

Uncompromising.

Accusing.

"Sorry. Didn't mean..."

Flex my fingers and make a fist.

Will 'em back in.

They retract.

Leave behind wounds that don't quite heal up.

Everyone lets out a deep breath.

Don't need this shit.

Not me.

Not them.

Moira's eyes narrow.

Blazing emeralds.

Sour stink of anger.

Infused with concern.

And frustration.

Warn her off.

"Back off, lady."

She ain't happy.

Too bad.

The Ruskie pipes up.

Face a mask.

"You are not being so nice to Doctor MacTaggert. She is trying to help you."

Fuck you, tin man.

"Watch the damn door!"

Kid stiffens.

Does as he's told.

Moira places her case on the next chair.

Opens it.

Takes out latex gloves.

Puts 'em on.

"Very well. No drugs. But yeh need replacement fluids. And I need tae clean yeh up. Ye cannae heal burns with carbonised fabric fused to yer skin. That ugly hole in yer abdomen needs irrigating and dressing. The wound's contaminated, that much is obvious. And dinnae give me any guff about healing factors. Yours obviously isnae working as well as it should."

"'M alive ain't I?"

"But barely functional."

"The hell I ain't."

"Then prove it. Get yer arse out of that chair and into an examination room so I can look at the reason there's blood and ooze soaking intae the back o' that chair."

Kay, I will!

I'll show ya.

Urrrh.

'M welded to the seat.

Lean forward.

Tear myself free.

C'n feel hot liquid flowing.

Stinging raw flesh.

Stand up.

Not difficult.

Not usually.

Rock myself forward.

Use the momentum to rise.

Room pitches.

Like a storm tossed ship.

Dammit.

Legs folding.

Body betraying me.

Darkness rising up

In a tidal wave of oblivion.

Sweeping me away.

Blink.

Staring at the ceiling.

As it recedes.

Suddenly 'Ro and Moira's faces.

Hovering over me.

Disembodied.

Invisible hands plucking at me.

Nose filling with reek of anxiety.

And adrenaline.

A voice.

Comes from far away.

"Logan, yeh idjit!"

No argument...

...from me...

...darlin'...

( Translation – My God!)

**Sorry this chapter is so late folks. Real Life keeps ****insisting on getting in the way. But better late than never, huh?**

**Thanks to my beta, MidLifeCrisis, who cybernetically bludgeoned this chapter out of me.**

**If you enjoyed this chapter please review. Reviews mean the cliffie gets resolved…um…as soon as possible. :0)**


	7. Agendas

**Chapter 7: Agendas**

It's pitch black.

Okay...

...so I got me a case of déjà vu.

No, wait. There's a light.

Could be inches away, could be miles.

No way of telling.

Just a gnat's bite.

A tiny golden beacon.

Warm.

Inviting.

Ain't no hesitation this time.

It'll take me back to the world.

Back to Jessie.

Reach out.

No pain.

Things're looking up.

Can't touch the light.

Can't eclipse it either.

That ain't right.

Wait!

What the fuck's that?

A deeper blackness boiling out of the dark.

Amorphous.

Extruding long, thin tendrils.

Not tendrils, limbs.

Long, thin, skeletal.

There are hands.

Wraith hands.

Thousands of 'em.

Clawed fingers twisted into vicious pincers.

Reaching out.

Grasping for me.

Snagging my arms.

My legs.

My hair.

Tugging on my clothes.

Piercing my flesh.

Dragging me back.

_SNICKT_

I slash at the darkness.

Twisting and turning.

Cutting and stabbing.

Without pay-off.

They can touch me, hurt me.

While I fight insubstantial mist.

Story of my life.

I fucking hate that.

Now what?

The air's thickening.

The beyond black shadows are condensing.

Can feel 'em gathering.

Massing.

Expanding.

An unholy dark nova.

Broadcasting hate and oppression.

Overwhelming my senses with paralysing fear.

There's something there.

A melevolent entity.

An invisible nightmare.

Something not wraith hands.

And it's crawling right up my ass.

It's hot breath sears my neck.

Poisonous.

Reeking.

I turn.

Clawing the darkness.

Where the fuck did it go?

It's still on my six!

I turn again.

And again.

First right.

Then left.

Dive and twist.

Trying to shake it free.

Trying to rip it to shreds.

It's still behind me.

A malicious presence pressing into my spine.

Its barbs burrowing into my flesh.

Burning.

Freezing.

Cruel.

I try to scream my defiance.

The darkness fills my mouth.

Crawls down my throat.

Choking me.

Stealing my voice.

_**CHUUUUUUNKKK**_

_Huh__wuzz__at?_

It echoes through the smothering dark like mocking laughter.

Getting louder and louder.

A trip-hammer shockwave rippling through the painshadows with bone-jarring force.

_**CHUUUUUUNKKK**_

The dark shadow recoils, absorbing some of the clawed hands.

Dragging at the monster on my back.

Barbs press deeper.

Seeking out vital organs.

Sucking the life outta me.

It ain't giving in so easily.

Neither am I.

I begin to run.

Towards the light.

Towards the noise.

_**CHUUUUUUNKKK**_

The light puckers like someone pulled a drawstring.

Then flares open.

A doorway out of this weird hell?

If it ain't I'll deal with what's waiting when I get there.

Tendrils of black fire coil around my legs.

Melting into my flesh with crushing force.

Inhibiting my flight.

Dragging me down.

_SNICKT_

_Slashslashslash._

_Getthefuckoffame!_

The blades bite deep.

Sinking through flesh to sever the coils.

Which squeeze harder.

Smell hot fresh blood.

Feel it gush out, spilling down my legs.

The light gapes wider. A cavernous maw devouring everything in its path.

Sucking in the shadows.

Closing over my head with the finality of death.

_**CHUUUUUUNKKK**_

Eyes snap open.

Reek of blood fills my nostrils.

I sit bolt upright, claws deployed and dripping with gore. Try to swing my feet so I can stand but find I can't. From the waist down I'm semi-mummified; tangled in blood-soaked white rags – the remains of a sheet. The mattress I'm lying on has been hacked to hell, it's stuffing scattered around, some of its springs reduced to steel splinters and sharp spikes. My legs are covered in deep gashes, self inflicted by the look of 'em, that hurt like fuck. Ravaged skin burns as my healing factor knits together the raw lips of the wounds.

This is a first.

Ain't the first bed I've ripped up. Probably won't be the last. I've torn apart fuck knows how many phantom evil bastards invading my nightmares. Even, to my eternal shame, skewered a concerned, well meaning and very real Rogue. Ain't never managed to maul myself before though. This development ain't good. What if Jessie had been...

NO! Ain't going there. Never happen. I'll make sure of that.

I check out my surroundings Quaint bedroom with antique furniture. The dullness of the daylight filtering through the drawn curtains tells me there's an overcast sky outside.

There's chintz everywhere.

Pink and green.

Some of it flecked with glistening splashes of red.

Fuck am I?

_**CHUUUUUUNKKK**_

"Piotr, you must be thirsty after chopping all that wood. Would you like some lemonade?"

"Da. That would be pleasing. Spaciba, Jen."

_**THUNNNKKK**_

_SNACKT_

Jen? Piotr? Ah shit! I survey the devastation. Mama Commeau musta taken me in and look what I did. Ragged and fragged her linen and bed like some apocalyptic kitten. Made splatter patterns on her floor, walls and standing furniture. I've trashed the entire room. Some fucking gratitude, huh?

Dunno where I am. Hate that. Waking up somewhere I didn't close my eyes, no fucking clue where that somewhere is. Damn certain this ain't the Commeau house. Ambient noises are different. There's water nearby but it's river, not ocean. The gingko's a big sucker but no way does it sound like a damned forest. No harbour noises. Just the wind in the trees, the river running in its course, birdsong on the air and kitchen noises coming from somewhere below me.

Sure as hell ain't Tilda's place neither even though she does have a chintz thing going on.

_Sniff..._

The reek of antiseptic is strong but I manage to filter it out. Likewise the clinging stench of blood and sweat. Familiar scents suffuse the room. Some stale, hours old: 'Ro, Moira, Metal Boy, Doctor Asscramp. Some fresh: Jessie, Jen.

If Jessie's been in here she must be on the mend. At least something's going right for a change.

My bladder is full to bursting, adding its discomfort to the gnawing ache in my recently healed gut. Evisceration, partial or otherwise, always leaves residual pain that hangs around for a while. All those organs, all that plumbing, helluva lot more complicated to regenerate than muscle. Takes longer to fix 'em. Question on my mind is how long this time? How much of a jump do those murdering cocksuckers at the marina have on me? How cold is their fucking slime trail? A day? Longer?

Won't save 'em.

They're gonna hafta wait. Need to take a piss. Urgently. There don't seem to be an en suite and I got no idea where the bathroom is. Do I go redneck and open the window? Or do the crossed-legged shuffle and hunt down the bathroom? I'm likely in the doghouse over the damage so do I wanna compound the crime? Guess I can hold it in for a coupla minutes longer. Gonna be touch and go though. And in the buff. Can't see any clothes or modesty towels. Ain't much left of the sheet but rags and holes. There's a comforter that musta fallen to the floor while I thrashed around but it's too bulky, too awkward.

Ah well.

Not like I ain't pulled this stunt before.

And this time it_ is_ an emergency.

Poke my head around the bedroom door. Hall's empty. _Sniff sniff._ Acrid stink of toilet bleach and soap coming from the right. Just follow my nose. Yup, bathroom. They even labelled the door. Thoughtful.

Unoccupied.

Kick the door shut.

Lift the seat.

And let go.

God, that feels good!

The in yer face chintz theme seems to have spread to the bathroom. Pink and blue this time. This bothers me in a vague sorta way. Somehow chintz and Jen don't seem to go together. Didn't see any evidence of it in her house. Jessie is the least chintzy person I ever met. Guess ya live and learn. There are towels on a shelf. Large. Fluffy. Hideously pink. There's a shower too. Wonder if there's any hot water? Yup.

Bladder emptied, another aching need is kicking the shit outta my insides; a critical urge to eat. Gotta replace the protein reserves my healing factor's still burning up and fill the void in my belly. It ain't polite to raid Jen's kitchen butt naked and covered in blood so a quick scrub up is in order. The steaming hot spray feels good against my skin. Face upturned, I let the water cascade over me, sluicing away the sweat and congealing blood, making a hasty but thorough use of the commercial brand shower gel and shampoo. Done, I wrap a generously sized towel around my hips and then use a hand towel on my thick mane of hair, scrubbing as much water out as I can.

"Logan?" Then more urgently, "_Logan!_"

Jessie's discovered I've gone AWOL. Judging by the stress in her voice she's discovered the wreckage too. Had to happen.

Dropping the hand towel into a hamper I head back to the scene of devastation. As I step out into the hall so does Jessie but she don't see me straight off. I hear the breath catching in her throat, see her knuckles grow pale as she grips the door frame. The intensity of her mood sours the air but it ain't anger rolling off her, it's fear.

"Hey," I call, keeping my voice soft.

Her head whips around, hair swinging out around her shoulders. Blue eyes stare at me, the expression on her bruised and grazed face anxious. I can see the patch of dark scabs and deep bruising marring her temple just below the hairline, see the line of small stitches poking through. Doesn't look so bad now it ain't pouring blood. There's an explosion of motion and suddenly she's in my arms, shaking with emotion.

"Thank God! When I saw the blood I thought..."

I pull her closer, nuzzling her hair with my cheek. "Bad dream. Sorry about the mess. I'll make it good." That's if Charlie's credit card is still intact.

"Jessica, is everything all right?" Jen calls from somewhere below.

"Everything's fine, Mom. Logan's awake."

"Then I guess he'll be feeling rather peckish."

My stomach chooses that moment to stage a loud protest.

"I think that's an affirmative," Jessie replies.

Her lips stretch into a smile but there's a haunted look in her eyes. The skin beneath them is taut, underscored with dark lines that I don't think are bruises. She looks haggard, like she's barely slept. Heartbreak and exhaustion cling to her, all but smothering the scent of relief currently wafting from her. Eager hands explore my chest with gentle urgency, as if she can't quite believe her eyes. Tentative, caressing, she runs cool fingers across my face, brushing through my damp sideburns before seizing them and pulling my lips down to meet hers. She kisses me, tastes me, reassuring herself that I'm real. I return the kiss, feel her melt into me. My stomach gatecrashes the party, growling louder.

Giggling, she breaks away from me. "We'd better fix that. Looking good, Wild Man."

"You too, darlin'," I murmur as I brush a strand of hair from her eyes. I can smell her blood beginning to run hot but she ain't what I need right now.

Those luscious lips form a pout. "You are such a liar."

"Me? Never!" You'll always be beautiful to me, sweetheart even when ya look like ya just went three rounds with Tyson.

She takes my hand, fingers lacing with mine, her eyes twinkling with the light of desire. "C'mon, stud. Let's make you presentable. The pink towelling sarong is sooooo not you."

I got your wavelength, honey. Shame I gotta ten-six ya.

-o0o-

Juice drips down my chin as I sink my teeth into my second rib-eye, savouring the almost raw blood on my tongue. Gonna take a lot of protein to replace what I've used up. Jessie's at my side, nursing a cappuccino and picking at a tuna sandwich. She looks distant, preoccupied. Piotr is sat opposite, meaty hand wrapped around his own coffee mug, marvelling at the way I'm shovelling food into my mouth, his own plate emptied and cleared away some time ago. Jen is still busy at the stove, putting the finishing touches to another steak by dropping a coupla fried eggs on it.

Two days. It took me two days to knit back together. The explosion's been all over the media. I'm watching the local cable news right now. Zilch about a bomb. Zilch about terrorists. Zilch about a black Jeep last seen in the vicinity of. Some speculation about a tragic accident, an old World War Two sea mine breaking loose, drifting into the marina and detonating on impact. The newsreader lists the injured. And then she lists the dead, amongst them Sara Jensen and Lieutenant Commander David Frankland. The screen flashes to photographs of the victims and then days old interviews with eye witnesses. No one is screaming murder or pointing accusing fingers. No mention of the bozos I KO'd. What the fuck is going on?

No point returning to the marina. Scent trail'll be stone cold and over-lain by people and clean up gangs. 'Sides, I got me a few names I can get to work on. First up I'm gonna track down Catchpole, have a chat with him if he's still alive. If that line of enquiry dead-ends there's Schaefer and Harris. Wanna know more about Spearhead too coz I figure it's linked to the Weapon X project. Can feel it in my metal coated bones.

Would be helpful to get my mitts on a copy of the taped evidence. Ahab said he'd put his in a safe place but that could be anywhere. Jessie might have a clue where. Might be worthwhile checking out his pad if I come up snake-eyes with Catchpole.

"Here you go." Jen serves up the third and last steak, a wan smile on her face.

"Thanks."

She seems to have aged since the last time I saw her. More careworn, the lines at the corners of her eyes deeper, etched by grief. Sadness and trepidation war with each other. The loss of Sara, almost like a daughter, has hit Jen hard. The near loss of Jessie has created a beacon of fear inside her that won't quit broadcasting. She's putting a brave face on it but she ain't fooling me.

"I'm sorry about the mess. I'll make sure everything is made good as new." I'll square it with Charlie later. With me on the payroll he's gonna hafta get used to crap like this.

Wrong time to open my yap. Jen's heartbeat quickens and she fails to look me in the eye.

"There's no need, Logan. It's a small price to pay for Jessica's life."

Ain't a huge leap to imagine what she's thinking. That bed coulda been Jessie.

"I got it, okay?"

Jen nods, turns away and gets busy with the dishes. She shoulda been at her husband's bedside these last coupla days. She shoulda been able to go home and not fear for her life nor the lives of her loved ones. Fucking Curse of Logan strikes again, delivering death and destruction in its wake. Trouble is I don't think it's done just yet.

"I ain't gonna put you to anymore trouble, Jen. I'm leaving just as soon as I get some answers to a few questions." I turn to Tin Man. "Kid, you got one of Charlie's phones?"

"Da. But I also have yours. I found it in Doctor Commeau's car park." He pulls the cell out of a pocket and hands it over. It looks like a toy in that huge hand. How can something so lethal be an artist's hand?

"Thanks." I take it. It stinks of old blood. My blood. But it's been cleaned up and given a full charge.

Jessie's attention is fixed on me. There's a shrewd gleam in her eye and an air of determination about her. She ain't about to let me leave alone but she remains silent, sparing her mother's feelings.

"Is that wise?" Jen's aware the sea mine story is a crock and her concern reaches a new peak.

"Something screwy's going on. Somehow Jessie is caught up in the middle of this and I need to figure out what the hell's going down. Could be coincidence all this crap was stirred up following the Iraq..." Dammit! I ain't supposed to know about that. Too late. Jessie's staring daggers at me and her Mom. "...thing. Wouldn't put money on it though. Whatever they want her for the bastards are gonna keep on coming until they're stopped."

Jen frowns. She's been caught up in this, had her life turned upside down yet kept a cool head, made sacrifices. "How can they if they don't know where we are?"

"Your son does and I don't suppose whoever's out there will lose much sleep over using illegal interrogation methods."

I can see protest in Jessie's eyes, a moment of denial at the thought of her brother giving up his family, but she's Navy, knows how interrogation works and bites her lip.

"It's only a matter of time. His every move is probably being watched, his every word recorded. Right now, none of you are safe. I need to do something about that. I gotta talk to Xavier."

-o0o-

"…twenty-nine fifty-one Fleetwood Pond Road, Seaford," Charlie informs me. As I scribble the address I can hear fingers tapping on a keyboard as he remote programmes my sat-nav. Let him. Soon as I snap the cell shut on him I'll do the same with the bitch in the box. Like I can't find my own fucking way? "It's east of the town, directly off Route 20," he adds.

"That's a weekend retreat, Charlie. This guy spends a lot of his time hopping between Norfolk and Washington. Figure he'll have an apartment in both places."

"You are correct, Logan. However, Admiral Catchpole is currently on leave and according to the records is spending the time in Seaford."

"Right." Witness re-location programme? Navy personnel records? How many government moles has he got working for him? Bet Cue-ball could find out who shot JFK if he put his mind to it. That's if he don't know already.

So, looks like I'm heading for Delaware.

More keyboard tapping. "I'm sending you a recent image for identification purposes together with other information you may find useful."

"Thanks."

Leather creaks as I settle back in the seat waiting for the intel transfer. The Jeep's cab reeks of cleaning products with faint undertones of burnt fibres and old blood. It ain't pleasant which is why I got all the windows open to let the scent of forest and fresh air dilute the funk. Couldn'ta been a pleasant task dealing with the mess. I owe Jen a lot.

The cell indicates it's received a message and I toggle the function key to retrieve it. Catchpole is an African American, late fifties by the looks of him. Distinctive scar on his chin, a little grizzled around the temples. Figure I'll know him when I see him. The text data contains two more addresses; one in Norfolk and another in Washington.

"He live with anyone?"

"His wife passed away four years ago. There is a housekeeper but she doesn't live in. He has a daughter attending the Sorbonne in Paris and his son lives in Seattle with his wife and two young children."

Charlie's thorough, I'll give him that. "Kay. Your buddy come up with the goods on Spearhead or those Para-human Counterforce bastards?"

"PCI appears to be a new agency created to deal with mutant terrorism. It has links to Homeland Security and the NSA."

"Has links to Spearhead too."

The voice coming through the earpiece alters, taking on a deeper timbre. I figure that ain't a good thing. There's a subtle but noticeable hesitation, a sharp but almost inaudible intake of breath. That ain't a good thing either. He knows something.

"Logan, if this Spearhead is associated with the Weapon X project as you surmise…"

"Ain't nothing to surmise. I know what I saw, dammit!"

"Quite. Preliminary enquiries have proven fruitless which is to be expected. If, as I suspect, we are dealing with a clandestine and unlawful agenda, we may never trace it using conventional means."

"Bullshit! They're feeding information to the spooks which means that someone fucking _knows _something." Just like you do, ya bastard. What is it ya ain't telling me?

"Which is why Spearhead, as an organisation, is unlikely to exist."

"You telling me it's a front?" Makes sense. What was it that dumb fuck Harris said? Need to know. "So Spearhead is a scam? It's a cover for something else?"

"At this juncture I can only speculate."

Yer so full of crap, Charlie. I heard that little hitch in yer breath the first time I mentioned Spearhead. Ya know more than yer letting on and when I get back to Westchester yer gonna tell me what I wanna know or I'll pin yer sanctimonious ass to yer damn wheelchair.

"Yeah? Well you go right ahead and speculate while I hunt the fuckers down."

"Logan, violence is not the answer."

Not this again! "Zat so? Then I guess someone forgot to mention it to the heroes who blew up a fucking marina!"

"The X Men do not…"

"Save it. You want 'em caught as badly as I wanna catch 'em. You okay with Petey staying on a while to keep an eye on Jessie and her folks?"

Cue-ball lets out a sigh. "Of course but this is not a prudent course of action. Taking recent events into consideration Jessica and her family would be safer here, at the school, for the interim."

"Yeah, I know. But she refuses to leave while her father's still in hospital and Jen will refuse for the same reason. And short of knocking 'em out, tying 'em up and throwing 'em in the trunk there ain't a whole lot I can do about it."

"I understand. Perhaps Mr. Commeau might be persuaded to convalesce in Westchester?"

"I mighta mentioned it to his wife."

I can hear his relief in the plummy tone oozing from the cell. The change of subject has him sailing safer waters. "Please assure Mrs. Commeau that her husband will receive the best medical aftercare. As for the other matter you mentioned earlier, please advise her that Moira will contact her presently to discuss details of refurbishment. Expense is not an issue."

"Thanks." My nose picks up a familiar scent and I hear the muffled scuff of soft soles treading on leaf litter coupled with the distinctive slap of toe sandals striking flesh. "Someone's coming. I'll talk to ya later."

"Logan I…"

Whatever he's about to say is cut off as I snap the cell shut and not a moment too soon. Jessie's making her way through the trees and she's dressed for action. The warm glow of the late afternoon sunlight shafting through the trees dapples her skin, transforming it into a writhing pattern of shadow and gold. A static pattern of abrasions, bruises and minor burns, two days into healing, are a grim reminder of how close she came to buying it. Her breasts jiggle slightly as she walks, her black spandex sports bra leaving little to the imagination. Skin-tight jogging shorts accentuate the way her hips sway as she swings her well toned legs. Ain't the only way those hips know how to move and my mouth goes dry just thinking about it. She pauses at the edge of the trees that delineate the track leading to the house, one hand combing back her hair from her face. The girl's blood has been running hot since I woke up this morning and the sensuous smile on her face tells me she ain't gonna be put off any longer. Hell, we could both use a little sweet and low relaxation. I slide out of the Jeep, dropping the cell into the door pocket before I engage the lock. She takes this as an invitation and saunters over.

"Hey, Wild Man," she breathes, moving in and wrapping her arms around my neck. "I thought you were only going to be five minutes."

"Ya know how it is when guys get talking, babe…"

Now she's nuzzling the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. "Somehow I doubt you were discussing sport with the professor."

Can see where this is leading so I'm gonna derail the conversation. I got an address and she ain't coming with me. I snake my arms around her waist, gently drawing her closer before dropping my hands to cup her ass cheeks.

"Got that right, darlin'. Guy's likely into pansy sports like baseball. Even got a court to prove it. What can ya say?"

I'm bathed in her scent and I suck it in, letting her pheromones, her delicious proximity, work their magic. Those soft lips work upwards and begin nibbling and sucking on my earlobe. Her arousal is obvious, just like mine's gonna be any second now. What is it about this woman that makes her so goddamn irresistible? It ain't just the looks and it ain't just the chemicals. She gives herself to me both mentally and physically. Such implicit trust, such complete surrender is a helluva turn-on. There's just something...I dunno.

Something.

Goddamn paranoia.

She draws back her head and looks up at me, her breathing shallow, her lips parted in anticipation. I find myself staring into those fathomless blue eyes, their pupils dilated with passion. The breeze blows a strand of hair across her face and as she brushes it away my gaze is drawn to the scabbed over wound on her temple. There're cracked ribs to take into consideration too. It's too soon for fooling around like this.

"Yer still hurting, Jessie. I don't think this is a good idea."

Wrinkles crease the bridge of her nose as she narrows her eyes. "You think too much!"

Not sure who initiates the kiss but it's sweet and deep and highly stimulating. One of her hands travels south and I catch it in one of my own.

"Not here," I growl. Too damn close to the house.

"I know just the place," she responds. Lacing her fingers in mine she heads away from the house and into the trees pulling me after her.

We walk for several minutes and I watch her carefully, noting the slight stiffness in her posture. She's sporting a spectacular bruise that stretches from mid-waist and up under her top. Deeper mottling outlines the cause of her injury; blocky rather than striated. My money's on the workbench rather than the fence. Whatever it was, ain't no way she's gonna take my three hundred plus pounds pressing down on her. Ain't no way I'm gonna let her. Doing her upright against a tree is also out. Bark's rough on the skin and my hands accidentally exerting pressure in the wrong place is too risky. If she's determined to go through with this then I'll just let her set her own pace and see how she copes in the driving seat. Personally I think her libido's writing cheques her body ain't really willing to cash. Until I know for sure ain't no harm in playing along. 'Sides, she's got me taught as a wire. I wanna do this as much as she does.

Around us birds call, insects hum and a fresh breeze rustles through the young leaves, carrying a promise of rain. I catch the fleeting shadow of something rushing through the undergrowth – a deer spooked by our presence. Somewhere off to the left the river surges along it's rocky course. Ain't no snow capped mountains to be glimpsed through the trees but the place has a wild and rugged charm of its own. It'll do.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

The devil plays in her eyes and she smiles. "You'll see. Not far now."

The heady scents of nature dilutes the desire streaming from Jessie. Even so, I take care to remain a little upwind of her because those damn pheromones are working their chemical magic and have forged a direct connection to the animal. It's all I can do not to take her right here, right now. We reach a stream and she turns, heading along a narrow path leading away from the river. The ground rises gently and after a coupla hundred yards the path meanders into a stand of birch that opens into a small, glade. I can see she's been busy.

Beside an inflatable camping mattress spread with a blanket there's a picnic basket. Cooling off in the stream is a small plastic crate containing six bottles of beer. The caps bear the distinctive Blue Boar crest.

"You thought of everything," I grin.

"You like?"

Do I like? Hell yeah! No broad's ever gone to this much trouble just to please me. Tilting her face upwards I plant a kiss on her lips and am instantly smothered by the fog of her need.

"That answer yer question, darlin'?"

She replies in kind and our hands begin to explore and caress. Nimble fingers tug my flannel shirt free of my waistband. She makes short work of the buttons and I shrug it off, letting it fall to the grass. My T shirt quickly joins it and in no time at all her fingers are brushing through the wiry hair on my chest. Warm, moist lips graze my collarbone as a hand dips to my waistband and unfastens my belt buckle. Obstacle overcome she pops the button and fumbles for the zipper. Lady's in a hurry.

Sliding my hands under her top I tease it upwards and her hand is forced to relinquish its position as I tug the strip of fabric over her head. Free of their constriction I lend her beautiful breasts a more personal kind of support; exploring the plump contours with experienced hands and lips. She leans into me, exposing her throat, her head lolling backwards letting her hair cascade, her eyes half lidded in pleasure. So far so incoherent throaty purr.

Taking care not to press on anything painful I let my hands wander south, hooking my thumbs into her waistband and inching it over her hips and down her thighs. My fingers test her secret place finding her as ready as her scent suggests. At this intimate touch a moan escapes her lips and her impatient hands push the shorts further down until she can step out of them, kicking them aside along with her sandals.

This is a fantasy. I'm standing in a wooded glade, a naked forest nymph in my arms. A forest nymph with an exquisite taste in seduction and beer. Taken by the moment I sweep her off her feet and into my arms. Reality rears its ugly head as she winces.

Dammit!

A stab of guilt cuts through my aroused senses and opens the door to reality. My will battles with the fire ignited by her scent and wins. "Jessie, if this is gonna hurt ya then it stops right now." Inside my head the animal howls its frustration.

Raising a finger to my lips she mutters, "You took me by surprise. I'm okay. Really," she adds when my doubt forms a frown.

I carry her over to the mattress and drop to one knee to gently lower her lithe form onto the buoyant softness. The smile on her lips, the twinkle in her eye is pure minx. In no time at all my boots and the rest of my clothing lie scattered on the grass and I join her, continuing where I left off, aiming on taking my time.

Jessie has other ideas.

She takes one look at my arousal and straddles me. No preliminaries. Just wild, animal lust. Exuding musk and need she's ready for me and takes me inside, sliding down me as smoothly as silk on skin. The girl means business. Establishing her own pace she quickly finds the spot and sets a rhythm of delicious friction that fuels the fire in my belly. Swiftly working herself up to fever pitch, her passion emerges as low, wordless moans of pleasure. Watching her grind against me with total abandon is incredibly erotic and I have to concentrate on holding back, not to end it too quickly for her. For a few moments she teeters on the edge of the abyss, twitching, teasing, trying to prolong the sensations I can feel flying off her like charged particles. Unable to bear the delicious agony any longer she takes flight, soaring headlong into rapture. Gripping her hips I thrust hard, once, twice, and follow her, pouring myself into her with explosive force.

"God, Logan, that was incredible" she pants as she lowers her sweat slick body onto mine. She's radiating heat, satiation and pain.

"You okay?" I demand, concerned that she's over exerted herself.

"I'll live," she replies, her lips kinked into a wicked smile. She grunts a little as she slips herself free and gingerly rolls off me before snuggling at my side. Wrapping my arms around her I plant little kisses on her shoulder and face and hold her like it's the last time.

-o0o-

We sleep, eat, share a coupla beers and make love again as dusk begins to fall and tiny bats flit between the trees. With the approach of night the forest chorus alters subtly as the nocturnals become active and the birds begin to fall silent. Hand in hand Jessie and I head back to the house. The breeze has picked up some and feels chill now the sun has set. She shivers slightly and huddles deeper into my borrowed shirt so I drop her hand and put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to share my warmth. No longer driven by her pheromones her mood, like the forest, has altered. I'm picking up apprehension, agonising grief, guilt and a smouldering anger. Our romantic interlude is definitely over.

She's been silent since we left the glade, since the her lust driven feel-good factor began to dissipate. Her thoughts are uneasy and marked, passing across her face like chaotic ripples as real life intrudes. I know the silence is over when she draws a sharp breath to speak.

"When are you leaving?"

"Soon." Sooner the better far as I'm concerned.

"I want to come with you."

Knew this was coming. Don't make it easier though. Preparing myself for her adverse reaction I bite the bullet.

"I wouldn't expect anything less," I reply, "but I don't know what I'm heading into, sweetheart. You simply ain't fit enough to be rotated back into the thick of things."

Stopping dead in her tracks she ducks from my embrace and twists to face me. Night dulled highlights flicker in her eyes. "Bullshit!" She spits out. "We just made love. Twice. Very vigorously. And I'm still on my feet. How rotated do I need to be to sit in a damn car?"

Dammit Jessie. Why ya doing this? Ya disappoint me, darlin' coz I thought you were above crap like this. Flaming broads are all the same. Just coz a guy's had a taste ya think he can be led around by the dick.

"Zat what this afternoon was about?" I jerk my head in the direction of the glade. "That little fucknic ain't gonna be the decider, girl. Don't think it will."

Jessie's lips fall open into a shocked O, her eyes widen and her face takes on a ghostly cast as blood drains from her cheeks. I can hear the tendons in her knuckles strain as she clenches her hands into fists.

"What did you say?"

The words are monosyllabic and hoarse with anger; she follows them up with a stinging slap across my face.

Voice now shrill she yells, "You think what we did was a sweetener? You bastard!"

A second slap, harder and louder, briefly shocks the forest critters into silence. Tears star her eyes as she massages her hand. Guess the slaps hurt her more than they hurt me. Ain't hardly the first time I've been slapped by a broad. Ain't likely to be the last. What bothers me is the smell flying off her ain't guilt or shame, it's righteous outrage. Shit! I read her wrong and royally pissed her off. Way to go shit for brains.

I reach out to her, trying to calm her. "Jessie, I'm sorry." The words stumble out of my mouth as I search for an explanation that doesn't sound lame.

Batting my hands away she hisses, "You sure as hell are!" before she does a swift one eighty and marches towards the house.

"Jessie!" I call after her. "I didn't…I'm…"

"Fuck you, asshole," echoes through the trees as the gloaming swallows her receding form.

She's right, I'm an asshole. I've just insulted the best thing that's happened to me in Christ knows how long and I'm gonna compound the crime by...

Huh? What's this? A ribbon of rage floats on the breeze but it ain't alone. There's determination threaded through it, salted with connivance and a little anxiety. Well I'll be… The minx might be mad as hell at me but she knows how to seize an advantage. I've fucked up, I feel like crap about it and she's using my guilt to her advantage, complete with pissed off female special effects.

She's playing me.

And she plays dirty.

Plays by my rules.

Helluva a woman!

-o0o-

No point returning to the house for a while. Jessie needs time to cool off. With luck she'll lock herself in her room and refuse to come out which'll makes my vamoose easier. Figure she's gonna get a bigger mad on when I book without her. Better that than dead.

I need to think some. Solitude and a coupla smokes will help me focus; pick through the rubble of facts, clues and suspicions littering my mind. Not wanting to be found I head off through the trees towards the river. As the last glow of daylight fades I lean against a maple trunk, light up a stogie and inhale fragrant smoke. Illegal or not ya can't beat a Havana. Castro might be a political pain in the ass but his citizens sure know how to roll a damn good cigar.

Okay so where the fuck do I begin? There's Harris. Woulda liked a little more time to wring the scumbag dry but since I went pulp city on his face he won't be talking to anyone for a while so he gets a reprieve. For now. Asshole's a stooge anyway just like Derwent and his crew but I wanna know who was yanking his chain. Who let him access the Spearhead file coz it ain't the sort of intel any Tom, Dick or Harris is gonna happen across by accident.

That file bugs me. Was my appearance at the marina anticipated or were there Weapon X/Spearhead personnel who ID'd me and sent a flash message back to Nazi Central? If the latter they were obviously in the loop about Harris. Pretty sure it wasn't Harris so who tipped them off so who the fuck was it? Derwent didn't come over as anything but what he is, a soldier, so I figure he ain't the one either. Was it Spearhead? Did Spearhead send the motherfuckers who went postal with the bomb? Or am I am a looking for a different bunch of creeps?

If Ahab got his facts right then I'm looking at rival factions. One bunch who wanna use Jessie for whatever fucked up agenda they have and one bunch that don't. Is that who the bombers were? The don't people?

That's another thing. Why delay the detonation? Why let me go walkabout? They had Jessie and Frankland cold yet they waited. Was I a target? Is that why the bomb was big enough to maybe take me out? So I ask myself again – why let me go walkabout? They, whoever _they_ are, have gotta know by now Jessie and me ain't on the casualty list. They're gonna come looking for us. Surprised they ain't found us. Could be the opposing team are keeping the bastards busy. Soon as we hit the grid they're gonna be up our noses like cyanide gas. I need to know what I'm dealing with here. I gotta protect her from these bastards. Protect her family too.

Let's take a closer look at Derwent. His team was sent on a bogus mission and equipped with spiked tech to gather intel on an equally bogus mutant terrorist cell. How come Harris was told to withhold information about me? I was the only mutant in the mix for chrissake! What the fuck was any of it about? Doesn't make a white of sense.

And what's with the media whitewash? No report of unconscious bodies with radios and sniper rifles and no report of a guy tied up in the john. Surely a media frenzy sparked by a downed surveillance team and a huge-ass bomb planted by mutant terrorists would serve the dark forces better than a tragic accident created by a rogue World War Two mine. Some nosy newshound shoulda latched on to the guys I beat up on but it didn't happen. Derwent and Harris believed they were on an anti-mutant terrorist op so why was media attention drawn away from that angle? Why off innocents in such a public way and not lay the blame on mutants? What was the fucking point? Was it a message of some kind?

Shit! My head is spinning with all this crap.

The bark feels rough against my skin as I prop the tree up, smoking quietly and letting the puzzle cascade through my mind in the hope that something, some little detail will slot into place or stand out so I can begin to build a picture. I let my senses roam, explore the forest around me. The night hunters are out, stalking through the undergrowth in search of a meal or carried through the night on wings as silent as death. Not that death is always silent. You ask anyone who can hear a corpse decay. Tree boughs creak and foliage whispers. The breeze is fresher, carrying the sweet scent of impending rain as the expected weather front moves in off the bay. Shame it don't carry a clue or three.

Okay, let's turn this mess on its head and look at it from the Jessie/Ahab angle.

Fact, someone planted the bomb and had an eyeball on the target to remote detonate. No escaping the fact Frankland and Jessie were set up. Using Sara indicates the mastermind behind the set-up is a pro and the bastard did his homework real well. The entire sitch reeks of deepest black ops. Trouble is, I can't see the mirrors for the damn smoke!

Harris recognised Frankland but not Jessie which suggests his orders came from the faction who didn't destroy her navy career. If this second faction are the bombers they either fucked up or they suffered a temporary equipment meltdown. Did Harris know about the bomb? Maybe. The van was parked in the alley and would've escaped the worst of the blast. Problem is, he stank of so much fear and anxiety during our little chat there was no way of telling if he had a different reason to piss his pants.

Stands to reason if Frankland was under surveillance then so was Jessie. Musta been how they picked up on me; why my file was on Harris' screen. Question I need answered is who put it there? Who or what the fuck is Spearhead? A codename for Stryker's outfit or separate group with access to the Alkali Lake project data? Jessie never had a problem until Iraq. If anyone's interested in her XFI status it's gonna be Stryker's mob. She and others like her escaped the effects of the brain-warping machine. Stands to reason the project would wanna know why which'd put 'em on the don't snuff Jessie side of the balance sheet. At least not until they can round her up and strap her down in one of their torture chambers. I aim to see that Jessie don't get dissected like a bug. I'll kill every motherfucking one of 'em before that happens.

My boot crushes the life outta my cigar and I light up another, inhaling until my lungs feel like they're bursting. Smoke drifts from my nose and mouth as I exhale. It doesn't have time to spiral upwards before the breeze snatches it away.

All this thinking is just creating more questions coz the situation is so screwed up I can't tell what's ass and what's elbow. Seems likely I'm dealing with two factions whose motivations are at odds with each other; three if the PCI shitwits have their own handle on this. I can use this to keep 'em at each other's throats if I can only identify the players.

Ain't got clue fucking one which side of the fence Spearhead falls. They know who I am coz they have access to Stryker's files. Don't mean they're the old goose-stepper's buddies though. Charlie's reaction when I mentioned the name was weird; a telling hesitation and a change in timbre. That's the Cue-ball version of oh fuck. The name's familiar to him, from Stryker's records perhaps. If so I can rule out Spearhead being new kids on the block. Did they blitz the marina? Fuck knows.

My profile on Harris' screen raises suspicions but it ain't evidence. Whoever thumbed the detonator won't hesitate to do it again. They ain't in Stryker's league but they clearly don't care about collateral damage which means they pose a serious threat to life. Need to identify the fuckers real fast so I can track 'em down and take 'em out before their lack of subtlety sends the body count sky high and maybe Jessie with it.

Catchpole's the next link in the chain. Dupe or otherwise, him priming Frankland was the catalyst for the marina disaster. Chances are he's already been offed unless he's smart. If he's still kicking I'll persuade him to give up the bastards he's been investigating. If he and his addresses have already been sanitised I'll go after Schaefer. From what Frankland said the guy might be nothing more than a messenger boy but I could strike lucky. If he's a kosher colonel then he won't be difficult to find and if he's dirty I'll know it the moment I get up close and personal. He issued orders and then had to rescind them. Be interesting to find who issued Schaefer's orders.

Jessie, Frankland, Catchpole, Derwent, Schaefer, a top brass conspiracy. The military is up to its bull neck in this mountain of steaming shit. That means there's a trail I can follow.

Important item. Gotta get me a copy of those tapes. Tapes'll give me faces, faces'll give me names and names'll give me bodies. Can only hope it ain't the shallow grave variety although I can offer that as an incentive if live bodies opt to go moody on me. They did their part but they ain't the conspiracy. They're minor players at best; a means to an end. Someone commissioned them to frame Jessie. I wanna know who and I wanna know why. Maybe it _was_ an anti-mutant conspiracy. Good a reason as any but I ain't taking anything at face value until I've got my claws, either metaphorical or physical, into the people involved.

Gut instinct tells me I'm an integral part of this fucking nightmare and maybe understanding where I fit in is the key to unlocking the puzzle. And I need to find that key fast before Jessie's ticket gets cancelled.

Looks like I'm gonna be kicking a heap of ass and cracking a lot of heads.

Suits me.

Whatever gets the job done.

Wind's picking up bringing the first spots of rain. Can't feel 'em yet but I can hear 'em, and smell 'em. Cigar's only got a coupla good drags left in it so I finish it off and stomp the butt into the earth, twisting my boot back and forth to make sure it's out.

Time to have a quiet talk with Petey and get my ass in the wind.

-o0o-

I slip silently through the kitchen door and disturb Jen in the process of making coffee. She acknowledges my presence by adding another mug to the tray she's preparing. Along the hall I can hear a movie playing on the TV with the sound turned down low. Sounds like the Marx Brothers. Quiet laughter tells me Petey's indulging his favourite pastime – American pop culture. Maybe Jessie's chilling out with him? Ears tell me no.

"Hungry?" Jen enquires. "There are some cold cuts. I can make you a sandwich if you like."

"Thanks, that'd be good." Might as well stoke up. When I hit the road I ain't gonna stop unless I hafta. "Where's Jessie?"

Jen quits what she's doing and gives me her full attention. "Jessica marched into the house nearly two hours ago and announced a hot shower and an early night. She practically stormed up the stairs. Have you two had words?"

"Could say that." Some of 'em were choice but I ain't about to expand on 'em.

"She wants to go with you."

Inflection says it ain't a question. "Yeah. Told her it wasn't happening."

Jen nods and exudes relief. "That explains her foul mood then."

Can't help but grin. "Ya think?"

"She's learned to cope with disappointment. She'll get over it." Jen returns to her coffee making and an awkward silence falls. "I spoke to Rachel Jensen this afternoon."

Shit, I hope she...

Anticipating my reaction she adds, "I used Piotr's 'phone." She lifts the jug and pours coffee into a mug. I can't see her face but the undertones of her odour, the stiffness of her posture reveals her conflicting emotions. "Sara's funeral will be held next Friday. Jessie and I would like to pay our last respects." Jen's voice quavers with emotion and she bows her head. The salty smell of tears mingles with the coffee aroma. "To David also."

Ah shit, not this again. Thought we'd thrashed this one out earlier.

"What difference does it make?" I demand. "Both Sara and Frankland are past caring and wouldn't want ya put in harm's way. The people who blew up the boat ain't gonna stop coming. They'll be waiting for ya to make a dumb move like that. Ya want the next wave of funerals'll be yours and Jessie's and Christ knows who else gets in the way? Zat what ya want?"

She twists around to face me, coffee slopping around in the jug. Eyes reddened by tears flash defiance but she smells apprehensive.

"I'm not asking for your permission, Logan. It's bad enough having lied to my husband and to Rachel about why Jess and I are suddenly unavailable. Jess wasn't injured in an automobile accident, she was injured by the bomb that killed Sara and David. Rachel has a right to know what really happened. So do the Franklands."

Fucks's sake, woman. You going suicidal on me? What the hell ya playing at? Okay, forget diplomacy. Can't afford to take no prisoners here. She either sees sense or she's gonna be deader than pig iron.

"Izzat what this is about? What they'll think of you? Izzat worth your damn lives?"

Jen stares at me hard, her eyes wet and reproachful. Her breath catches in her throat as she stifles a sob. I know I got to her.

"Well is it?" I demand, driving home my point.

"No."

She looks like she's gonna burst into tears. This has been hard on her. She chose to stay with Jessie and talk to her husband and son over Charlie's hi-tech and untraceable phone. Sooner I get 'em all up to Westchester the better I'll feel and the safer they'll all be. She takes a tissue out of her slacks pocket and dabs her eyes dry. Grief rolls from her in thick waves, some anger too. She didn't ask for this to happen. Up until I gate-crashed her cosy little world everything was hunky-dory. She's good people. They all are, even Doc Asscramp. They don't deserve the shit storm coming down on 'em.

Jen fills another mug. I sense she's waiting for me to say something. I scratch my neck, searching for the right words. "I know this is important to ya, Jen. I can't make any promises but I'll see what I can do, okay?"

Coffee mug in hand she steps towards me, a watery smile quirking on side of her mouth. "Thank you, Logan."

"You give any thought about relocating to Westchester for a while?"

She shakes her head. "I need to speak with Claude and Philip about it before I can make a decision. Since it is impossible to discuss any such move on the 'phone I cannot give you an answer just yet."

"If the manure hits the fan yer gonna hafta make a unilateral decision, sweetheart."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

This ain't no time to be playing ostrich, lady. I let it rest for now. "One of those for Petey?" I nod towards the tray.

"Yes."

"I'll take it. I need to have a word with him before I go."

"I'll bring a plate of sandwiches through," she says, filling the last mug on the tray.

Careful not to slop the hot liquid over Jen's hand I take the mug from her and grab another from the tray. The lounge door is ajar so I kick it closed behind me.

"Got a minute, kid?"

Petey, sprawled on the sofa, cranes his head around and replies, "Da." On seeing the coffee he sits up and takes a mug from me. "Spaciba."

"Gonna be on the road ten minutes from now. If everything goes okay I'll be back sometime tomorrow. I just wanna be sure you ain't gonna let these two do anything stupid."

His amiable expression sours a little. "Jen and Jessica are not stupid people."

The kid means well but I ain't got time to argue. "I know that. But right now they're in shock which can and does affect judgement. No matter what they stay right here, got that?"

"I will guard them with my life, Logan," he announces solemnly.

I know ya will, kid. Yer a one man army. That's why I'm leaving them in your care for a little while. "I hope it won't come to that. Charlie's making arrangements to evacuate the lot of 'em to Westchester. With luck you'll be gone by the time I'm through in Maryland."

"That is my hope also," Peter's bass voice mutters. "Professor Xavier is a great man. A saviour."

"Yeah." He's also a sneaky, manipulative bastard who holds out on his pals. One of these days kid you'll find that out for yourself. "Any sign of trouble you reach for that 'phone, ya hear me? 'Ro or Summers can get here inside thirty minutes"

"You have my word, Logan."

"That's good enough for me."

The door swings open and Jen enters the room, a plate of sandwiches in her hand. Petey jumps to his feet like a good little soldier and relieves her of her burden. "There you go, boys. Tuck in." Then she's gone.

My side of the plate is cleared in thirty seconds flat as I cram the food into my mouth. I wash the sandwiches down with the still very hot coffee and put the mug on a side table.

"They find you, you know the drill."

"Da. Through the trapdoor to the crawlspace beneath the house, escape into the trees and..."

"...head for the car hidden near the road." Jen says in a businesslike voice, finishing Petey's sentence for him as she steps back into the lounge. "When you mentioned you were planning to leave I prepared this." She thrusts a large brown paper bag at me. Food for the journey. "There's a flask of coffee in there too. Strong and black."

"Just the way I like it. Thanks, darlin'," I respond, acknowledging her kindness with an appreciative sniff of the contents.

A wan smile ghosts her lips. Suddenly she reaches out, seizing my arm in a strong grip. "Logan, take care." Then her touch is gone and she looks a little embarrassed at her boldness. "Jessica has lost so much. I couldn't bear it if she lost you too."

"She ain't gonna." Curling my fingers around the bag's opening I let it and my arm drop to my side. "Tell Jessie...tell her I'll be back."

My farewell to Petey is a nod and a swift, meaningful stare. He fucks this up he answers to me. Unfazed, he returns my nod, his own gaze steady. Kid knows what's at stake. Did good when the school got raided, kept his cool and saved almost all of the his fellow pupils from being snatched by Stryker's goose-steppers. He's ready to do it again.

Time to leave.

-o0o-

In the hall I listen for any sound coming from Jessie's room. Zilch. If she's eavesdropping she ain't giving anything away. Out in the yard I glance up at her bedroom window. Room's dark and she ain't there peering out at me. Nor at any other window that faces this side of the house. Boy, does that broad know how to sulk.

It's stopped raining and the wind's dropped a little. The breeze carries a myriad of scents; decay, life, the reek of engine oil and human endeavour. I pause, testing the sounds and smells of the night and find nothing out of place. Across the yard the Jeep reflects spots of light from the house, it's greater bulk a dark outline against the trees. One more glance over my shoulder reveals Jen and Petey watching me through the kitchen window. Of Jessie there ain't a sign, just a faint, hours old scent mingled with the wet earth. It'll soon disappear, washed away by the approaching band of rain.

Ah well. Perhaps she's realised I'm right and she's just giving me a hard time over that stupid crack I made. Gonna hafta make it up to her when I get back. A click of my key fob unlocks the Jeep and I climb inside, dropping the food bag behind the passenger seat. I've barely pulled away down the track when a figure steps into view.

Fuck!

Shoulda known.

Jessie strides into the middle of the track, her lithe figure looking almost supernatural in the brilliant beam of the headlights. I'm forced to slow down to a crawl as she turns and faces me, blocking my way. Determination etches her features as she stands there, arms folded across her chest, staring at me defiantly. The skimpy costume's gone. In its place are boots, jeans and a dark grey hooded top. Business clothes.

I roll the Jeep forwards slowly in the hope that she'll step aside. She ain't gonna of course but it's worth a try. As expected Jessie stands her ground forcing me to roll to a halt mere inches from her. Engine set to idle in neutral I exit the cab. Gotta employ a little tact to this sitch, a little of the old Logan charm. She ain't gonna listen to reason if I bawl her out.

She stands there like a hiker's Venus, haloed in light and dark, strands of hair writhing in the breeze. Resolute. Waiting.

"Look, Jessie, what I said, I was an asshole, okay."

She waves a slender hand in dismissal. "Not an issue, Logan. I've had time to think about it. We're all a little preoccupied right now. I can see why you thought…"

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry. We okay now?"

"I guess so." Hands drop to her sides as she relaxes her pose, the hard lines of her expression softening to an almost smile. Shame I gotta wipe it away.

"Good, coz ya still ain't coming with me, sweetheart."

Girl's got a short fuse so I wait for her to bristle like a porcupine with a burr up its ass. To my amazement she nods in agreement. She actually giving up? Un-fucking-believable...

While my jaw hits dirt she steps towards me, one hand fumbling in her jeans pocket. "We can cover more ground if we split up." She pulls out a bunch of keys, dangling them in front of me. "You go chasing the admiral and I'll go turn over David's place and talk to his father."

"What?" Dammit, darlin'. I don't have time for crap like this.

"I said…"

"I know what ya said. You fucking crazy? You looking to get yerself killed?"

Unperturbed by my argument she sticks to her guns. "I'm looking to get payback. For Sara. For David."

You're hurting, hon. Ain't no time for grandstanding. "No. You'll get your payback. I'll get it for ya."

Keys clutched tightly in her hand she steps closer until she's almost in my face. "With you or without you, Logan, I'm going to do this."

"What if I tie you up and dump you back with your Mom?"

She shrugs. "Then you'll never see me naked again."

She's got me over a barrel. I leave without her and the stubborn bitch'll go looking for answers on her own. Lady wants revenge and I can't fault her for that. But she's a minnow swimming with sharks who'll gobble her up and hardly notice. I lost Jeannie. Ain't about to lose Jessie. 'Sides, I can keep an eye on her. Make sure she don't do anything as dumb as getting herself dead.

"Hell sweetheart, if that's what's at stake then ya'd better get in."

"Knew you'd see sense." Smiling triumphantly Jessie plants a brief kiss on my lips before walking around to the front passenger door and climbing inside.

Out-manoeuvred by a broad. I'm fucking losing it. Resigned, I join her.

"Yer just a passenger, right? Nothing else."

Eyes cast down like a demure teenager on her first date she replies, "Whatever you say, Logan."

"Then ya don't need that piece yer toting." I smelled the gun oil the moment I climbed in beside her. "Get rid of it."

Without any protest she removes a nine millimetre automatic from beneath her top and puts in the glove box.

"Happy now?"

"No, I ain't."

Jessie shrugs and straps herself in, her expression unrepentant. "Life's full of disappointments."

One last feeble attempt to get her to rethink what's she doing. "What about yer mom? She thinks yer tucked up safely in bed."

"I left her a note. She won't fret so much knowing I'm with you."

"Oh yeah? How will she know yer with me?"

"It was never an issue."

"Fuck!" I growl.

She laughs her minx laugh as we head off into the night.

**I know this chapter has been a long time coming and I apologise for the delay. I suppose that's what the death of a parent does for you. Anyhow, I'm back now thanks to ****MidLifeCrisis**** beating me over the head to get my ass into gear. She ****beta'd**** this**** and nursed it along for the last few days**** so thanks for that, Dee.**

**Hopefully the follow up won't be so long in coming.**

**If you enjoyed the chapter please review. That's if anyone still remembers who I am**** and what this story's about****. :0)**


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